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#masters of dramatic brooding entrances

neoyi · 2 years

Note

😋- Funny/stupid headcanon for Specter Knight

Sooooo I've mentioned repeatedly that I adore Specter Knight as a Goth Nerd, which King of Cards seem to validate. You do not proclaim this with as much pride as Specter did unless you are a goddamn NERD.

That said, some headcanons of this bitch boy being a Goth Nerd.

*He originally created Joustus before he was Specter, when he was just Donovan. A project he did on the side, when the Enchantress was in the midst of concocting a plan to distract Pridemoor while she gathered her army, Specter, disgruntled from working with this woman, but sensing an opportunity, mentioned this little card game that he had been working a while back and the rest fell into place.

He was most definitely not amused when King Knight not only took to it and mastered it, but regularly beat him during matches. Specter should have known better than to continuously accept that golden goon's challenge, but damn it, someday he's going to beat King Knight in Joustus because to give up otherwise is an insult. An insult!

*Specter Knight loves books. As a child growing up without parents in a shitty orphanage, it meant he didn't learn to read until he ran away and taught himself at the age of 10. The written word is sacred to him and he absorbs books like a motherfucker.

Naturally, he has attempted to write a novel. He has a couple of ideas he's working through and would like some constructive criticism.

-One is a fantasy trilogy series (The Alneria Chronicles)

staring a brooding thief coerced into an epic adventure

that'll take him across the world. Reoccurring love interest is

this roguish captain of a magical ship. The final draft of Book

One: The Sea and the Starstorm of the Neptunio Kingdom:

The Opening Saga - Locke's Tale exceeded just a little over

2,000 pages. Propeller told him to cut it down 'bout maybe a

thousand pages or at least split it in two. He also told him to

consider a shorter title. A MUCH shorter title.

-An erotic novel centering on a normal, everyday dude, and

the hot, sexy skeleton man that would love to go bump into

that good night. Working title: Undeath's Ecstasy.

*In public, he claims his pet memmec is named "Cerberus, Dog of the Damned." Her actual name is Cinnamon and he gives her lots of kisses and hugs.

*Owns a coffin that he sometimes just lies in even though he 1.) does not need to sleep and 2.) actually has a goddamn bed.

*Once asked Propeller if they could make-out in said coffin. It was much more cramped than they thought. Then he asked if they could do it in a cemetery. Specter made sure to ask permissions from all the ghosts nearby if it was okay and they were totally down for it, but Propeller found it exceedingly creepy at the thought of ghosts (that he cannot see, but Specter can) potentially watching them get handsy.

Even Propeller has limits with his lovemaking.

*Does not like vampires because they're narcissistic, prideful, snooty, and think they're sooooo great because they're the sexy undead. He's not annoyed that people aren't as attracted to liches, oh noooo.

Also they've been refusing to ally with him for the betterment of Valley's End (once where the Tower resided and the Enchantress ruled, now governed by Specter and his friends) and he knows it's because they're just fucking with him at this point and it's driving him nuts and oh my GOD, he hates vampires. HATES. HAAAAAAATES.

*Essentially plays the Ben Wyatt role to Propeller's Leslie Knope, and would absolutely make his own Cones of Dunshire.

*Has randomly thought about theories and personal headcanons from novels he's read and has extensively discussed this with his boyfriend during sex. Propeller was very much not amused.

*Absolutely loves making dramatic and grand entrances. Anything from shapeshifting his cape to look bigger or flowy, announcing his presence as a Force of the NIIIIIIIIIGHT or some variation, or creating scary images with his magic to terrorize his opponent - he'll do it. Because internally, he thinks it's cool.

This is also why he and Propeller get along: they're both theater kids and grand entrances are just a thing with these two.

He has practiced cool poses in front of a mirror before.

*Has told his friends and lover that maybe, if things get too rough and they can't make a decision, just fuck it all and roll a D20 and see if that'll get any results.

No one has taken him up on that offer, but someday, he'll be able to bring out Ol' Skulley.

*Cannot draw for shit, but likes to doodle anyway. This is in contrast to Propeller who is really damn good at it.

*Admits he's most attracted to men with a certain amount of hair on their body (*coughLuancough*). Propeller is a notable exception, and even then Specter kinda wishes his boyfriend grew out a beard.

(Ask me my opinion on specific headcanons here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/neoyi/692596101710315520)

#specter knight #ask #neoyi talks

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psalm22-6 · 2 years

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1925 Interview with Jean Toulout on playing Javert

Here is a charming interview, translated by me and so all faults are my own, with Jean Toulout during the filming of Les Misérables. I love that his favorite hobby isn’t even reading, it’s re-reading and I appreciate that he definitely reread les mis in preperation for the role.

[Source: Apollo-Journal, January 1st 1925]

Between the shooting of two scenes for Les Misérables, I was able to approach the terrible Javert, whose tall dark silhouette stood out against the clear December dawn.

“Well Monsieur Police Inspector, it’s my turn to interrogate you.”

For once his hardened face smiles and I meet the clear and piercing gaze of Jean Toulout who played, from the heroes of Victor Hugo, a figure of impressive severity and tragic stoicism.

“Ah! You want to know,” the excellent artist says, “how I understood and played this unpleasant character who is nonetheless imbued with a certain brooding nobleness that did not fail to seduce me?”

“Certainly, but before you do, permit me to present to the readers of the Pathé-Journal the theater actor that they so often applauded on the boulevard because, of course, before you dedicated yourself to the cinema, you first belonged to the theater.”

“Indeed, I even went to the Conservatoire, where I met the late master Leloir, whom I remember vividly. After the Conservatoire, it was another school: the regiment. After I returned from service I joined the Antoine theater and besides [Firmin] Gémier I was active for many years, interrupted only by the war. I must say that Gémier exerted a profound influence over me. I retain from his lessons an essential principle, which I applied not only to the theater but in film, it’s that all dramatic aesthetics are the result of thought. It’s your brain that must direct your gestures and intonation. What I mean is, the job of the actor must be to externalize his spiritual conception of the role he is charged with interpreting. Note that this is a commonly accepted principal today, but it is not less true that is is in complete opposition with the long accepted rules, since the epoch when Montfleury acted, the tragedies of Corneille to the more recent period of Taillade and of Maubant, where the actor’s expression was purely exterior.”

“And after the war, you did your entrance into the renaissance?”

“Yes, in a piece in verse, and then it was the Ambigu, the Gymnase, and finally the Paris theater I was in the premier of Vertigo, written by Charles Méré. My theater career, moreover, has not deterred me from dedicating myself to the cinema, as my taste has always pushed me there and before even Les Misérables I had the joy , I can say it was a joy for me, to make multiple films with Fescourt who is not only a perfect friend but also a true leader.”

“And what is your conception of the cinema?”

“Oh! Well, it is very simple and without pretension. I imagine that the cinema must be before anything else a very human art and very real, by which I mean that it must always stay on a clearly visual level and address, above all, imagination and sensibility.

Which is not to say, by the by, that cinema must exclude all thought. To the contrary, and I think that people will realize this with a film such as Les Misérables, a scene with exclusively literary inspiration created in a distinctly cinematographic way can hold much interest.

I also think that each role must be meticulously crafted on the inside. It’s with the soul that the actor must play.”

“What a beautiful work and I will be even more happy to hear you say how you understood the role of Javert.”

“How I understood Javert? Well you’d have to bring back Victor Hugo to have an exact portrait of this policeman of sublime conscience and incomprehension. I read and I reread Hugo’s work, then I meditated on the sober and precise decoupage done by the director. That was sufficient to give me an exact concept, necessary to the composition of my character. I endeavored to be that man who walks following a straight line. I tried to put Javert in my eye, physically, as the painters say.”

“Aren’t you yourself a painter?”

“My god, who does not have a hobby, like Ingres and his violin. Yes, I admit that I paint some landscapes.”

“Painting isn’t your only pastime I imagine? One imagines that a man of your build does not look down on sports?”

“Absolutely, I adore fencing and swimming but I estimate that the best pastime for us artists is an intellectual pastime. I get an ineffable joy from rereading. Anatole France, for example, or Romain Rolland, and I think that it’s still the best way to hold up our ideals in a frenetic and mechanical century, when people have too much disdain, in my opinion, that is lyricism at the expense of muscles…but that’s another story, as Kipling would say. We’re moving away from Javert.”

“One last word. What surprise will we get in your next creation?”

“Ah! If I tell you then there will be no surprise, and besides, do not forget that discretion is the principle virtue of policemen. Know only this, that I am part of the distribution of the next serialized film…but shhh…I don’t have the right to add another word.”

And suddenly, his face severe again and his heavy silence menacing, the persecutor of Jean Valjean left in the pursuit of his elusive enemy.

#LM 1925 #my translation

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stawscweam · 3 years

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A New Golden Age | MegaStar

Hello! This is my first ever fanfic! I’ve loved MegaStar since I was a kid, so this just feels like fate, you know?

I dedicate this jumble of words to my darling friend @sivictis uwu 💜💜💜

Here it is on AO3!

A new dawn settled on the recently rebuilt city of Kaon. Citizens stirred online as rays of light flooded their berth-chambers. As they awoke one-by-one, excitement coursed through all of their circuits for this day was of great importance; it was the coronation of Megatron and Starscream as the supreme rulers of Cybertron.

The official ceremony had been put on hold for quite some time after the resolution of the Great War. The restoration of their war-torn planet held upmost precedent after the execution and imprisonment of the defeated Autobots.

Justice was dealt swiftly to their high command and the helm of Optimus Prime decorated the entrance to the grand capitol. The remaining Autobots were used as prison labour to bolster the ranks of the reconstruction effort.

Cybertronians that had fled when the civil war destroyed their world returned upon news of the war’s end and were challenged with two choices: assist their new Decepticon brethren in rejuvenation or face the consequences. Most chose the former.

The damage dealt upon their planet was great, but the mechs of Cybertron were determined to make their leaders’ dream of renewal a reality. Unity and hope flowed through their processors as they tirelessly worked to birth a new Golden Age.

As their work bore fruit, Kaon surpassed the prestige of Iacon of old. Its streets bustled with activity and purpose as pubs, medical centres, cultural hubs, and businesses of all kinds blossomed into fruition. Emancipated from the archaic nonsense of Functionism, bots from all walks of life were free to choose their vocation and hobbies.

At the epicentre of the great city-state stood Kolkular, the headquarters of the Decepticons and now proud capital of Cybertron. The metallic walls of the fortress shone brightly as the sun continued to rise. Its residents already up and about to prepare for the big day. The grand hall needed to be pristine and magnificent for nothing but perfection was acceptable in the optics of a certain Seeker.

----

In his shared berth-chamber with Megatron, Starscream fussed in annoyance as his aides fumbled in polishing him, their servos teeming with nervousness and joy at being chosen to assist one of their leaders. However, the prime reason for their joint clumsiness was due to them ogling the new frame of the jet.

Sleek, aerodynamic lines of gold and scarlet graced their vision, causing their cooling fans to awkwardly hum in the spacious room. A rush of apologies left their mouths as they quickly calmed their anxieties, submerged their amorous thoughts, and properly applied the polish to his body.

Megatron shook his helm in amusement at the antics of his Conjunx as he overheard the commotion from the balcony of their room. With his arms clasped behind his back, he peered across the waking city and mulled over the state of his own body.

He still possessed the Ore-13 empowered frame that assisted in their victory over Optimus Prime and his accursed Autobots. The peace he had dreamed of in Towards Peace would soon be achieved and then and only then would he rid himself of the rail gun currently attached to his right servo.

The scars and dents that littered his body were a grim reminder of the pain and loss his Decepticons endured during the long course of the war. This battered frame of his would be a living symbol to represent an era of hostility and strife that will never ravage their world and his people again.

Cybertron would flourish under the combined rule of Starscream and himself. After all, it was their mediation that had led to the destruction of their steady rivals. Optimus Prime and his cohorts could not have foreseen the both of them working together in perfect unison and that was their fatal mistake.

Megatron knew long ago that with Starscream at his side, no goal was out of their reach and that the universe would be theirs to conquer.

“Are you finished brooding or should I come back?”

Megatron’s helm turned slightly to the beautiful sight of Starscream glistening in the sunlight as the jet strutted up to smirk at his beloved bondmate. Dainty claws grasped the balcony’s railing as he settled beside Megatron.

By the unmasked hunger in those piercing optics, Starscream figured the bumbling fools must have done a somewhat decent job at polishing his frame. He might have even thanked them if he had not already dismissed them.

“I wasn’t brooding,” Megatron clarified. “I was thinking.”

“About?”

“You.”

“Oh, really?” Starscream raised an optic ridge. “And what about me? Do tell.”

“It was your brilliance and cunning that secured our victory, our future. Look, Starscream,” Megatron gestured to their view of the city. “Look at our world. Cybertron has never experienced true freedom of this magnitude. We did this and we will crush all those that stand before us. Together.”

“You big sap.” Starscream snorted with a roll of his optics but could not suppress the smile forming on his face. Megatron leaned down as a silent request, tilting the Seeker’s chin up with his servo. Starscream obliged him by lifting himself up on his heel struts and locked their lips in a passionate kiss.

Their EM fields intertwined in a swirl of fierce love as they parted slightly, helms resting comfortably on each other. Their optics shut as their sparks pulsed in tandem, their bond strengthening with each beat.

Despite his lover’s affinity for the dramatics, the jet could not object to the results of their reconciliation. How comical it was for the war to end simply when they ceased their incessant bickering and acknowledged each other’s faults and strengths.

They both came to understand the other’s solution to their four million stellar cycles old problem and devised a devilish plan that utilised their shared prowess in deception. Their union produced a harmonic serenity that washed over their troops and solidified the complete annihilation of the Autobots.

A give and take entity slowly formed between them that burst into a cohesion they had not experienced since the beginning of the war. Their mutual commitment to the Decepticon cause culminated into the Cybertron that laid before them.

No want, no unhappiness, no dissent.

Peace through tyranny.

“My Lords, it is time.”

A humble Decepticon scout bowed in reverence to the now reluctantly parting couple. Megatron reached down to grasp Starscream’s servo and placed a gentle kiss upon it. The jet huffed in faux indignation, still unaccustomed to such blatant expressions of affection. However, he could not deny how it warmed his spark to immeasurable degrees.

Servos clasped; the two leaders followed the scout to the grand hall of Kolkular. It was clear to Megatron—much to his chagrin—that no expense was spared to lavishly decorate the hall to the specific demands of his Conjunx. The subtle grin resting on the face of Starscream was proof enough that their aides had satisfied the exceptionally picky Seeker.

As they walked to their designated positions by their thrones, Megatron and Starscream waved to their subjects still servo in servo. The hall was packed to the brim for no mech of Kaon was barred from witnessing the crowning of their beloved rulers, the roar of their cheers deafening all in attendance.

Starscream had mused that after their long and arduous effort to reconstruct a portion of their planet, the mechs of Cybertron deserved a lively respite. Megatron steeled himself for the inevitable boasting of his mate after the event transpired.

Arriving at their destination, the two lovers stood before their thrones and faced the crowd. The previous thunderous cacophony settled to a hush of whispers and soon complete silence. Those who could not physically attend the ceremony also muted their conversations as they watched the televised proceedings.

“Citizens of Cybertron and the Constellate,” Megatron began. “This past stellar cycle has been a gruelling journey to restore what was once lost. Today, we commemorate your valiant efforts in rebuilding Kaon!”

“Though there is still much work to be done,” Starscream added gently with a practised smile. “The full revival of Cybertron is well within our grasp now!”

“Hone this fervour, this drive and Cybertron will be the shining beacon of our glorious Decepticon Empire! We will continue our dominion over the lesser species and take our rightful place as masters of the known universe and beyond!”

“Under our united might and brilliance, we will lead you all to a new galactic order that will crush the anti-mechanical prejudice that has swept across the cosmos. Stand with us for it has never been a better time to be a Decepticon!”

“All hail Cybertron!” They declared as one.

A wave of applause and hollers rumbled across the masses in the grand hall and all of Kaon. Pride and determination charged their frames as they repeated the final message of their lords with ecstatic zeal. No longer subjugated to a cruel caste system that oppressed their liberties, they were free to usher in a new era of Cybertronian supremacy and they owed their full gratitude to Megatron and Starscream.

The cheers and adulation of the crowd continued as the rulers of Cybertron seated themselves on their thrones. The two assistants that had polished the radiant Seeker, returned on each side of Megatron and Starscream, both holding a bejewelled crown resting on a tasselled pillow. The duo’s shaking servos successfully crowned their lords and the persistent ovation erupted into a booming uproar.

With a deep bow, the twin mechs left the stage. As they departed, Megatron shifted his discerning gaze to his Conjunx. A buzz of electricity surged through Starscream as he felt the heated attention of his beloved once again and lessened his posturing for the crowd and cameras to address his other half.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because you’re stunning.”

“Would you quit that!?” The jet hissed, failing to stop energon from tinting his cheeks. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Only for you, my dear Starscream.”

“Is that so? Well, two can play at that game, dear Megatron.” Leaning over and up to the much larger mech, Starscream cupped Megatron’s face between his claws and kissed him. Hoots and whistles reverberated everywhere as the corulers of Cybertron shamelessly canoodled.

The bonded pair separated slightly, crowned helms mere centimetres from each other.

“I love you, you sentimental oaf.”

“I love you, too.”

#megastar #baby's first fanfic #i like corny ass shit what can i say #i referenced a lot of my favourite idw issues if that wasn't blatantly obvious. i'm not a subtle individual *wheezes*#shoutout to Goosey for helping me come up with their coronation speeches! we're still fighting at the Dennys tho #tf shit #my fic

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obiwns · 4 years

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how about a princess reader x Ben solo?

summary: jedi knight!ben is reunited with princess!reader and a confession is made.

word count: ~1.3k i hope i didn’t drag this out & i didn’t edit it 😎

a/n: also i LIVE for the princess!reader x jedi trope. some parts were rlly cheesy i literally gagged then aw’ed. i gave this a cheap ending and i apologize for it 😔

masterlist.

“he’s a prince too, isn’t he?”

“i heard he is very handsome.”

“a prince and a jedi knight? my, does it get any better than that?”

“what’s your earliest memory of your dear.. what was his name again? ben?” one of your handmaidens spoke, her fingers weaving strands of your hair into delicate plaits. you had to suppress a smile but your friend caught the reddening of your ear tips. “come on, your highness, you know we love the little love story you two have got going on.”

you rolled your eyes, your lips drawing back to reveal your toothy smile as you started to regret telling your closest friends about you and ben. it wasn’t much really, just an excitable childhood with a future jedi knight and consistent letters sent between the both of you.

“kellei, it’s not even as dramatic as your making it,” you playfully chided, your hand coming up to playfully swat at the grinning handmaiden behind you. “besides, it’s been so long. there’s a possibility he’s forgotten me.”

the girls around you giggled and continued to stare at you, urging you to go on and answer the question. you looked at them, feigning betrayal before giggling to yourself. you would’ve never imagined yourself being so giddy by the mere mention of memories.

“alright, alright. the first time we met–“

there was a rap at your door. kellei twined the braid in her finger, pinning it elegantly in the center with two loose strands to frame your face. a handmaidened scurried to the door as an orchestra of groans died down, greeting whoever was there before returning to her post beside you.

“your highness, they’re calling everyone in attendance to the dining room.”

“my apologies, ladies. unfortunately this story will have to wait.”

you smile wistfully, rising from the seat as your handmaidens backed away, allowing you to admire the intricate weaving of your hair and the way the dress pooled around your legs. you turned your attention to your friends, giving them a nod of dismissal before allowing them to lead you to the dining hall.

two guards are stationed at the grand door and as they open the door, your name is announced. everyone inside turns and bows their head respectfully. your eyes scan the room. a tall, dark-haired boy is standing next to senator leia organa. could it be? as if there was a magnetic pull, his head turns and your eyes connect. your breath hitches in your throat.

“ben,” you breathed.

“(y/n)?” he answers back, his thick brows furrowing. you suppressed a small smile, pausing to get a look at master skywalker and his bright eyed padawan. you nodded your head in greeting as the jedi master introduced the pair of you. rey of jakku, you learned, was found by master skywalker and master solo on one of their many adventures. as the last of the guests show, everybody takes their place. conveniently, you’re placed right in front of ben.

his dark, brooding eyes peer into yours– almost as if he’s taken aback by your presence. he offers you a boyish smile, one that draws his mother’s attention. she turns, offering you a kind and warm smile.

“ah, princess (y/n),” she greets, gently tipping her head in respect. you offer her the same. your eyes flicker between the mother and son, “ben, you remember dear (y/n), don’t you? oh, it’s been so long. my son has been knighted, did you hear?”

a grin found its way to your lips, “i have, from master skywalker. congratulations master solo.” servers rush around the table, serving arrays of plates and wine glasses. you took a sip from your glass as one was placed down in front of you. “and yes, it has been so long. i remember when you were lanky at fifteen. look at you now; tall and handsome.”

ben seemed to blush at your compliment. out of the corner of your eye while ben shifted in his seat, you could see the subtle nudge leia gave him. before a conversation could be properly started, everyone began to dig into their courses, asking one another of their politics and well-being. you offered the dark-haired boy a smile before indulging yourself into your meal.

the dinner went by relatively smoothly. as quick as the entrees came, dessert flew by. you and leia were finishing up your conversation just as ben wandered by.

“it was lovely to see you again after so long, princess (y/n). ben! my dear, why don’t you escort her to her chambers? i’m sure all these halls are quite confusing,” leia turned her head to her son, her brow quirking slightly as if she dared him to challenge her request. he offered her a genuine smile, his head nodding as he extended his arm towards you. you bowed your head towards the aging woman, bidding her a good night before taking ben’s arm.

the clicking of your heels and the distant hum of laughter was all that broke the silence between you two. as you neared the seclusion of your quarters, you sighed discontentedly and decided this was a time as good as never to question ben. you turned your head slightly to gaze up at him.

“i missed you ben, truly,” you spoke, watching his dark irises flicker to the corner of his eye where he could see you. his lip twitched and his forearm seemed to flex as you pressed on. “why did you stop writing?”

there was another silence that settled between you and him as he thought carefully of his response. in all honesty, he had no excuse. it was master skywalker that had gotten in the way. his pace slowed and his other hand came to rest on yours.

he released a short exhale, “i’m sorry for the way i left you, your highness–”

“please, ben. it’s (y/n). there’s no need for formalities for us.” he cleared his throat.

“i’m sorry, (y/n). but i’m sure you know the jedi code as well as i do: i’m not permitted to form close bonds. my uncle made sure of that when he caught me sneaking back into the temple,” he explained, his brows furrowing faintly as he did his best to suppress the way his face relaxed at the mention of your last deviance with him. “he forbade me from sending you letters and if i tried.. well, he’d intercept them. so, i stopped trying.”

“you have a connection with your mother though, do you not?” you asked, your brows furrowing as you failed to wrap your head around the concept of no bonds. he nodded his head.

“i’m afraid that’s an exception.”

you lips curled downward into a frown as you absorbed the information that was given to you. the pair of you were no longer dumbfounded, in-love teenagers with little to no responsibility. you were a queen and he was a jedi knight. oh, how times changed.

“i know, i wish we could go back in time as well. i would’ve run away from the academy if you asked me to,” he confessed openly, his brown eyes full of emotion as he gazed down at you. your mouth opened in shock. silence settled between you two as you once again needed the moment to understand what he just admitted. your heart fluttered and your stomach did a flip in realization.

ben stopped at the entrance to your chambers. he let out a small sigh as his hands slipped down from your arm to your hand. he gently fiddled with you fingers before raising them to his lips, placing a rather gentle kiss on the knuckle. he offered you a pained smile, leaning forward to place another light and airy kiss on the corner of your lip.

“you look beautiful in that dress. goodnight.” you stood there for a moment, watching his figure disappear down the hall and around the corner. the door to your chamber opened and a shocked kellei was revealed.

“you have to tell me.. everything.”

#star wars x reader #ben solo x reader #ben solo imagine #ben solo #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren imagine #everything is right in this fic #star wars #star wars imagine

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cowtale-utau · 4 years

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Who's on which rung of the dramatics ladder? For the ones only toting around a step ladder especially, what does it take for them to drum up the theatrics?

Will go to any length for dramatic effect ;

Spur, Scout, Flint, Haze, Shine, Foxtrot, Aurum

Dabbles in dramatics ;

Ace, Lief, Piper, Calico, Mercury, Thyme, Viridis

Who has time for all that drama? ;

Chisel, Coyote, Tender, Cirrus, Sage

Drama is beneath me! (pst, no it isn't);

Whip, Cook, Doc, Saturn

Now let's break these down a little more.

Spur is the dark, charming, and dangerous kind of dramatic. Swishy capes and swooning admirers. He loves to make an entrance. He wants everyone to know he is the superior being present. Scout is a boisterous sort who loves to be the center of attention. He's a confident little shit who thrives in the spotlight. As long as no one is getting hurt, there is very little he won't do.

Flint likes stirring up trouble. Rumors, gossip, even outright lies. Anything he can gather and spread. He enjoys watching the lives of those who have crossed him and his, fall apart, from naught but a few well placed statements.

Haze has a love/hate relationship with drama. At his core, he hates it, and would really just like to relax. But he is a damn good showman, and will play his role well. He straddles the line of actor and puppeteer remarkably well. Playing his part, while also manipulating everyone around him. He does occasionally enjoy the game, but it has been too long since he had a proper challenge.

Shine is a kind of the middle ground between Scout and Flint. Flamboyant and vivacious, all eyes are on him, while he breaks the hearts and confidence of everyone who looks at him wrong.

Foxtrot is a deeply insecure individual. He hides it well behind smiles and larger-that-life behavior, but he truly doesn't think much of himself. Part of why he makes a show of everything is to seek validation. He wants to be loved and adored, but struggles to feel anyone could love him for him and not for the act he puts on.

Aurum is a more benign Shine. He can command a crowd with ease, and make any and everyone swoon. While Shine might tear everyone down, Aurum builds them up. He's the sort to egg everyone on until somehow the whole town is involved in an absurd scandal.

Ace will occasionally stir the pot with a good prank, and they can get pretty elaborate. He also likes to fuck with people in silly harmless ways. That joke about gullible not being in the dictionary? Silly misunderstandings like telling someone he heard their mother in law wanted an alpaca when she said alpaca wool sweater. Exactly his kind of humor. He's usually too worn out to do much very often, but he will when he can. Lief likes the fun side of dramatics. He'll grab and hold the attention of a room, but he does know how to shift focus to someone else when needed. He likes to regale people with stories of his Greatness. Piper stays out of the drama most of the time. He does occasionally get the itch to go all out and pulls some ridiculous show-boating bullshit. Like emerging from a cloud of magical bees and bee smoke and choking everyone in the vicinity. For reasons. Calico can be dramatic, but often finds their little need. He is one hell of a showman, and has a talent for both genuine magic and mundane misdirection. He'll put on the show as needed, but often finds his presence is plenty dramatic on its own. Mercury is academically driven, but he's still boisterous and excitable. He has a grand presence and will tends to effect the gravity of near by things when he get's too excited about something. He'll also use his strong control over gravity to emphasize his stories with props. Thyme is another storyteller dramatic. He loves to share urban legends and myths he learns around the bonfire. He's a sucker for a good scary story, and is almost too good at telling them. Viridis is a sassy, snap-back sort of dramatic. He's not one to start things, but he'll finish them.

Chisel will get involved if someone really pushes him, or if he's drunk. Other wise, he'd really rather stay out of it. Coyote gets way to stressed out to get into drama. The closest he gets is backing up his brother. And occasionally obnoxiously playing the harmonica. He's mastered the art of the “soundtrack”. Tender is too tired and worn too thin to involve himself in any drama. He just wants to live quietly and mind his own business. Cirrus is very nosey, so he knows everyone else's drama. However he would much rather have no involvement in it himself whatsoever. He's a very high strung nervous sort, and doesn't do well with attention or conflict. Sage is just too lazy to bother with drama. He will put in some effort to shut it down if it gets out of hand, but other wise, he'd really like to just relax and the shade, thanks.

Whip is in denial about what a drama king he is. He showboats, and demands attention at all times. He picks fights, and is honestly a bit of a “mean girl”. But he claims to be above all that childishness. He isn't. Cook is very much like his brother, tired. He is also, however, very sassy. And while he never seeks drama out, he is one to snap back as he feels he needs to. He's protective of their family, and it shows. Doc genuinely tries to stay out of it. He thinks he does... passably well. He tends to get drug into his brothers nonsense, and with the proper motivation he'll displays his own subtle dramatics. His tend to be grand gestures done quietly. He does things but draws little attention to it. The ones he wants to notice, will. Saturn would much rather just focus on his science, thank you very much. He'll act all cool and brooding, but that's its own sort of drama.

This was fun. Hope you enjoyed!

#Cowtale #asks #dramatics #character building #full cast

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bigskydreaming · 4 years

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Dropping off another commission which means okay NOW I only have one to finish. This one is a throwback to that time I was talking Marvel/DC crossover ships, and I said okay but what about Dick/Wanda because yeah, like two of the only Rom heroes in anywhere being a thing would be pretty cool, but also like.

Batfam + Magnetfam holiday dinner gatherings.

Someone agreed, and asked for more along those lines and asked that I not worry about the crack potential but feel free to embrace it instead, citing that Batboys adopted by Zatanna AU I wrote as a tone they’d enjoyed. Their only other requests were they wanted to see if I could include Luna and Crystal in any ways, and that I give Stephanie some time in the spotlight. I warned them that my usual take on Stephanie is ADHD as hell, but that apparently was not a problem, so uh...hang on when it gets to Steph or be prepared for her to leave you in the dust. She doesn’t slow down for stragglers.

There were a ton of characters to juggle in this so not everyone gets the same degree of focus, but I did my best to work everyone relevant to the scenario in as best I could. Also, I don’t actually know where a couple of these particular takes came from - I’ve never ever written Lorna anything remotely like this in my life, but I kinda just let the crack do what it wanted to do. *Shrugs* I have no defense, only oops.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you 15K, yes you heard that right, 15K of crossover crack that puts the Batfamily and the Magnetfamily at the same dinner table, lights the match and then runs for cover.

************************

We enter unobtrusively through the dining room’s lone doorway. Our awkward approach is that of the mockumentary style; our hushed atmosphere is that of taking ourselves very seriously, because if we don’t, who will?

Said dining room’s doorway is perfectly situated so as to allow only one point of entrance and exit. Also: maximum drama while doing so. The architecture of Wayne Manor was designed with a clear set of priorities in mind. We invite you to picture the airs of Downtown Abbey, but as if skewing less towards the egalitarian passive aggressive stylings associated with British High Drama, and more towards the rather more direct passive aggressive stylings of American High Drama.

As an example...where a British soap opera might depict someone dramatically gasping “Why, I never!” and clutching symbolically at their heart in order to convey they’re mere insults away from having a myocardial infarction, an American soap opera might instead depict someone dramatically yelling “Bleep you!” and then vaulting across the table to punch someone in the face in order to convey they’re really quite angry and the only way to fully express that is by starting a feud that will last 72 episodes and only end when one of them is murdered and replaced by their evil twin.

That sort of thing.

We return to unobtrusively entering through the doorway whose very singular purpose in the narrative is as a conveyance that this is the House That Drama Built.

It should be added as an afterthought that only just occurred to us but is no less important because of its poor punctuality: the House That Drama Built also exists as a kind of metaphysical Drama vampire that cultivates an atmosphere of Drama whilst simultaneously feasting on the Drama it creates just to harvest as its crop of choice.

Quite nasty and shiver-inducing, to be sure, but let it serve as a good rule of thumb: Don’t trust centuries old rich people houses. There’s always something messed up about those places. Seriously. You know its true.

Proceeding onward, and despite having explicitly mapped out why its impossible to do so, we nevertheless manage to sidle into prime vantage points without being noticed. Look, we can do stuff like that because we’re magic, okay? Also fictional, and really just a tonal framing device introduced as a thin coat of varnish overlaying everything with the glistening sheen of crack fiction. Now shush and pretend we’re not here, which should be easy because we’re not.

The two family patriarchs, Erik Lehnsherr and Bruce Wayne, each sit at opposing heads of the excessively long dining room table that is almost certainly an indication one of Bruce’s direct ancestors felt a clear and urgent need to overcompensate for something.

Locked in an epic battle of wills that looks remarkably similar to the staring contest perfected by kindergartners everywhere, though that’s undoubtedly just a coincidence,the two titans of temperament face off in a face-off for the ages.

Both steel-faced and with backs so straight the sight would make any right angle weak in the knees, these bastions of brooding are equally infamous for their rigidity and refusal to bend, even when they probably should - because sometimes its a battle over the fate of the world and a fight for the very heart and soul of humanity, yes, absolutely true, but other times their children just asked if they could have pizza tonight instead of meatloaf and it really didn’t need to escalate that quickly, but oh well.

Heedless of the judgment of fictional narrators as well as every person to ever suggest to them that their sphincters might actually benefit from the occasional attempt to unclench, the Master of Magnetism is an irresistible force while channeling the unleashed totality of his willpower through his steady gaze, as fixed and unwavering as the North Star itself. At the same time, his counterpart is an equally immovable object while planted firm and steady in his convictions, the imposing edifice of his impassive expression not likely to be eroded by the mere disdain of another mortal. Not when the Man of Bats has stubbornly stared down gods.

Admittedly, the last one used the opportunity to blast him through time and space instead, but that’s the kind of risk one takes when matching an ageless deity ego for ego. It should not be viewed as an indication as to whom among these two mighty mortals might appear the victor when engaged in similar combat. Especially as neither is in possession of magic eye beams which technically should count as cheating, if you really think about it.

They match each other fractional eye squint for fractional eye squint. Both lost in the intensity of each other’s gaze in a way that regardless of tropes is less enemies to lovers and more enemies to psych, we’re still enemies and if our kids do tie the knot, I’m totally going to insist on hosting the wedding at my big-ass mansion and you can call that a power move if you want because it totally is, what about it?

In response to the challenge that’s conveyed with crystal clarity thanks to the power of crack, Erik’s own gaze narrows fractionally further as he reaches down with his mutant abilities until they chance upon a vein of iron miles deep. He then proceeds to push and pull on it in such a way as to make the earth shift beneath their feet.

He is not subtle about being the cause. That sort of thing isn’t really in his wheelhouse.

However, in the name of defending Erik from his children’s exasperated glares, it should be pointed out here that Bruce did in fact ask, what about it, and Erik did in his own fashion simply indicate what about it indeed.

Well. Sorta.

The initial clash of wills meeting wills subsides and assures both men that their opponent will be no easy pushover. With that, the concrete aspiring contenders retreat once more to their far sides. They proceed to keep eyes locked and faces solemn and still, neither taking their gaze off the other even while eating or responding to some conversation piece directed at them by another denizen of the dining room.

“This is quite the meal, Mr. Pennyworth. You are to be commended,” Erik says sincerely. His face is still as smooth as Lake Placid, with nary a Syfy Original killer crocodile lurking dangerously beneath the surface.

“Yes, truly some of your best work, Alfred, thank you,” Bruce adds completely deadpan, not to be outdone.

Eternally placing his professionalism above all else, Alfred waits until he’s out of the room and halfway to the kitchen before venting an exasperated exhalation of his own.

Of course, Wayne Manor does have excellent acoustics.

Elsewhere along the table’s lengths, Pietro and Damian also keep their stares deadlocked from across each other, never deviating throughout the entirety of their meal. Their detente, however, is more accurately termed an ‘arrogance-off,’ with each refusing to give way before a lesser opponent. If Pietro is remotely bothered that he’s deeply invested in establishing his superiority over a twelve year old, it doesn’t show.

Look, if he starts making allowances for age, where would it end? With him letting toddlers walk all over him simply because they managed not to blink first? Don’t be absurd.

On the other side of Pietro, Jason is gleefully lobbing conversational grenades down the length of the table. Seizing advantage of even the slightest lull, he packs every sparse moment of silence full of yet another philosophical hot take he’s strategically brainstormed to cause maximum conscience carnage.

Each carelessly uttered but carefully aimed moral dilemma-turned-mortar fire is tactically engineered towards setting each and every highly opinionated diner to warring over the higher ground. There are always holdouts of course, those who instead hunker deeper down in their trenches in an attempt to wait out the bombardment without engaging. Persistence has never been something Jay lacks, however, so even the few duds that fail to properly detonate only end up followed by a rapid-fire encore the first chance he has to reload.

Meanwhile, Lorna downs a glass of wine like its a shot of tequila and she’s a veteran of the collegiate drinking experience. Then again, she actually is, even if most tend to forget that. It doesn’t quite lend the same weight to her resume as actual freaking superhero, you’re welcome for the planet’s continued state of existence does, so she doesn’t tend to lead with it.

But that doesn’t mean that even this dubiously termed ‘skill’ lacks a time to shine. One does what one has to in order to make it through family gatherings when the family in question is hers, the mistress of magnetism maintains. Be sure to note both lower case m’s in the script of her full title, because sharing a powerset with her father doesn’t mean she actually has to indulge in silly shows of power with the sole purpose of establishing one’s right to self-brand with fully capitalized letters.

She finds such things exhaustively tedious, as dull as they are droll, and as much as she loves her father, she could really stand to see him embarrass himself less in public, with his ridiculous insistence on those farces.

In his defense, the enemies that flee in terror upon such displays, wetting themselves all the while...well, clearly they’re suitably impressed. But that doesn’t mean Lorna can’t still be embarrassed for him. Honestly, would it really kill him to act his actual age of....

Oh hell. She’s not nearly drunk enough yet to try and make sense of her father’s age.

Full disclosure, and also full awareness that her brother will never fail to bring up her own recorded instances of ridiculous grandstanding whenever its remotely relevant, and most other opportunities as well - yes, those happened, yes, she agrees they were ridiculous and necessary, but she also requests it be on the record that in all such instances she was either very young, very possessed, or very both.

Probably.

Look, the possessed thing happens often enough its not like even she can keep track of it. If she wants to squeeze a few perks out of that particular trend towards things that are obnoxious and unnecessary for five hundred, Alex, she’s damn well entitled.

And why, in the name of all the gods she hasn’t been teammates with and seen drunkenly stumbling around in their underwear at some point, is she picturing her ex Alex’s face when whimsically thinking of the Jeopardy host? Better question, why is she still not drunk enough to not give a shit if she does?

Ugh, if this leads to her having to admit Betsy was right and she’s begun indulging in her family’s tendency towards being excessive about anything and everything that keeps their minds off boringly pedestrian events like a break-up, well. That would really suck.

Mostly because Betsy is unbearable when she’s right about anything.

Driven to extreme measures by the fact that her thoughts are being rude and contentious and mean to her, Lorna trades introspection for the potential hazards of engaging directly with her dinner companions. Risky as that may be. They could be more unbearable than Betsy, for all she knows. And bad things tend to happen when she gives strangers the benefit of the doubt. She usually ends up disappointed, or bored.

Also, possessed.

Girding herself with jaded detachment, Lorna resigns herself to the mortifying ordeal of having to know other people - people who when taking into account her sister’s track record with such matters, could easily turn out to be serial killers or even worse, annoying robots.

Shuddering at the memory of the Pencil Sharpener That Walks Like A Man, she surveys the chaos she’d mistaken for white noise when still busy being her own entertainment. Its slightly livelier than she’d assumed it would be.

Lorna’s never lacked her father’s eye for tactical analysis and strategic scheming, to be clear. Its more that she’s absent his desire to see her molded into any kind of mini-me that could potentially carry on where he leaves off when he dies, as if no interruption has taken place.

But never mind her issues with her father, that she steadfastly refuses to refer to as Daddy issues. Coolly assessing the commotion around her, she decides the only role worth adopting here is that of the official fanner of flames. The only side worth taking is of course the only side ever worth taking: hers, obviously.

She wades in without any warning beyond a green-lipped smile that toes the line between bearing just enough menace to act as a threat, but never so much as to warn people to take sufficient precautions when facing her.

It’s been said that the difference between her and her father is that Magneto causes natural disasters.

Lorna is one.

Wasting no time before establishing herself as an enemy to all and a friend to none, as if she needs any, she sets up shop as a random sequencer with no allegiance or agenda other than making everyone regret insisting on her attendance.

She deftly diverts Jason’s verbal volleys off their intended course with dry, sardonic wit and she wields sly insinuations like a racket with which she redirects grenades of great ethical weight at whomever strikes her fancy. She is whimsy: watch her do whatever the hell she wants. Object, and catch hellfire.

Rather than take offense at her interference, Jason tips his head to her in appreciation of her craft. Like calls to like, after all. Lorna decides in a burst of decisiveness that she likes this one, at least.

She tilts her glass to him with a smirk and refills, topping off Kate Kane’s glass as well when the older woman holds hers out with a look that leapfrogs right over seduction and practically all the way to the morning after. She decides then and there that she likes this one as well. Two for two, look at that. And people say she’s anti-social. Distinctly recalling she’d taken a second look at Kate’s legs before sitting down, and adding in those eyelashes....

Well. Lorna’s never seriously considered taking another woman up on one of these looks before, but it wouldn’t wholly be accurate to claim she’s never thought of sending one to say...Ororo or Betsy a time or two herself.

Or even a little accurate, actually, but that is neither here nor there.

Lorna thinks, though, that if she were to take up this particular woman up on this particular offer on this particular night - there might at some point be explosions.

This is not a dealbreaker.

Look, she didn’t get her degree in geology because she held any particular interest in literally dull as dirt sandstone. Pyroclastic igneous rock formations, on the other hand...now that’s a different matter entirely. Fire pretty. Batwoman pretty.

Okay, she might be a little tipsy at this point. She looks at her wine glass accusingly; she shouldn’t have to find these things out on her own. It neither confirms nor denies.

Bitch.

Still further down the table, Dick's usual charming composure has been knocked out and left tied up in a coat closet somewhere. With the anthropomorphic embodiment of the emotion Frazzled then stepping in to take his place, and not at all very obviously acting out of sorts, if the amused but completely unhelpful smirks of his siblings are anything to go by.

The Dick-shaped entity seated in his place makes occasional token attempts to direct the flow of conversation like the maestro he’s usually known to be in such settings. In this particular setting and time, however, he mostly just manages to exist as a sentient display of the condition or state of being I Have Regrets.

His attention flits from one person to the next as he periodically tries to distract everybody from plotting the murders of everyone else at the table. Or covering up the murder of someone else, as committed by one of their family members. Or from plotting to frame someone else at the table for murder. Or from broadcasting that they’d absolutely get to the bottom of any frame job and prove their relative’s innocence and see the real culprit behind bars.

Also, he may or may not have to every so often stop and distract himself from plotting murders of his own.

Dick lands briefly on Jason every now and again with an “I know what you’re doing and would greatly appreciate it if you’d stop” glare.

Its met each time by his little brother’s “I have no idea what you’re talking about, this is just how I partake in family gatherings, isn’t that what you want or should I just go home” mask of blatantly transparent faux-innocence.

Jay’s expressions are practically close captioned, that’s how far he is from even attempting to bother with the whole thing.

Dick returns fire with a narrowing of the eyebrows that screams: “I’ll get you for this, and your little dog too.”

Jason’s lip only upticks at one corner, his otherwise studied indifference sending back his crystal clear response: “Bitch, I died. What’re you gonna to do, threaten to go a week without trying to ambush me with hugs?”

Dick’s jaw shifts like a tectonic plate movement, teeth grinding as he holds the glare. “You’re the worst.”

Jason beams and tilts his head, eyes drifting upwards in silent contemplation, as if to say, “Well, we all aspire to great heights in our own unique ways.”

“Allow me to congratulate you on your successful achievements then.” Dick’s now puckered expression fires barbs from a blowgun.

“If you really cared, you’d show me with a trophy. What’s a guy gotta do to get his brother to try and buy his love and affection,” said little brother lofts at him by way of an obnoxiously exaggerated batting of his eyelashes.

Next to Dick, Wanda has her elbow on the table, propping up her head in one hand as she lazily pokes at her food with her fork. She’s not even trying to hide how much she regrets every decision that led to this. She likes Dick, quite a lot, but clearly, neither of their families are fit for conjoined festivities. Lesson learned.

Duke is shoving dinner roll after dinner roll into his mouth, as if afraid to risk missing out on anything by attempting more focus-intensive food handling than that. His eyes are feverishly bright as they dart from one length of the table to the other and back again. This is the best day ever.

Tim and Cass are seated side by side and occasionally dip their heads together in hushed conversation. At other times they flick their fingers at each other in sign language just below the surface of the table.

Periodically, Tim will then wade into one conversation or another, never staying focused for long on any one single conversation partner before moving on.

If one were to view this whole....event...as an exercise in conversational warfare, one might be tempted to view Tim’s patterns of discussion as somewhat akin to guerilla warfare. Brief engagements not aimed at achieving any kind of victory so much as feeling out the oppositions’ defenses and tactics before withdrawing to form more firmed out plans based off the gathered intel.

Dick closes his eyes and sighs as he sees Tim and Cass dip their heads together again. Right after Cass’ eagle-eyed gaze spent a few moments lingering on the wake of Tim’s latest ‘tactical retreat,’ which was plenty of time for their sister to soak in a fair amount of everyone's reactions and responses.

Dick coughs into his hand. When Tim looks his way and meets Dick’s stern gaze with an inquiring eyebrow, Dick reaches a hand to the side of his head as if to smooth back a lock of hair. Instead he then signs with grimly dancing fingers, “Please tell me you and Cass aren’t using a holiday dinner together as a chance to develop contingency plans for taking down members of my girlfriend’s family.”

Tim cocks his head slightly and frowns. The only indication that his fingers are once again busy at work beneath the table is the slight ripple of movement along his upper arms. A few moments later, Dick’s phone vibrates with a notification. He slides it into his lap and reads Tim’s text.

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what you just said. I don’t speak ASL.”

Dick tilts his own head and fires an unimpressed look across the table. “Seriously?”

Cassandra pokes Tim in the side, sending him an inquiring look of her own. No doubt curious what he’d texted Dick to elicit such a response. Tim grins and answers her in swift, practiced gestures the little twerp makes no attempt to hide this time. Blatant ASL, just one of the several different sign languages they were all fluent in. Cass raises a hand to her face and hides her giggle behind the back of it, just as Tim finishes. Dick darts his sour face at her, texting her phone in turn.

“Et tu, Cass?”

She glances down at her own phone and then just shrugs at him, utterly unrepentant. Dick pinches the bridge of his nose. Okay then.

Pietro’s daughter Luna had long since retreated to one of the Wayne family dens to watch movies, citing a headache. No one doubted that the precocious young empath was just entirely uninterested in being in the vicinity of all their entangled and extremely loud emotions.

Her father had briefly attempted to impress upon her the importance of being present with the rest of them for at least some of the dinner. His daughter had simply met his token effort at imparting politeness protocols with a pointed look first at him and then at Damian, who was at most two years older than her.

Pietro had grimaced. In an ideal world, caving to her demands would not be easier than him just conducting himself like a mature adult for the duration of a single dinner gathering. But then, none of them came from an ideal world, and he suffered no illusions about being an ideal parent. And more importantly, in the grand scheme of things it was hardly like this was one of the really important battles, the ones that needed to be picked carefully.

That was his excuse and he was sticking to it. And thus Luna had been excused to entertain herself with the Waynes’ vast video library.

Wanda’s twin sons thus far seem content to keep themselves busy with their own back-and-forth in the private ‘twin language’ they’d crafted over the years - more due to cheating than the existence of some preternatural twin understanding of each other. Neither boy pretends to have a clue how the other’s mind works.

Essentially, Tommy just talks to his brother at full superspeed, while Billy has a spell in place that allows him to keep up and understand his twin no matter what speed his ramblings take. No one seems entirely sure what mechanism they have for Billy to speak back to Tommy in a way no one else ever picks up on, or even if such a mechanism exists at all. It's entirely possible that due to the nature of their dynamic, they’d never found creating one to be at all necessary.

That isn’t to suggest that Billy is a follower in temperament or by nature. Its more just that when dealing with Tommy, one either follows (or tries to play catch up slash does damage control) or else one waits until Tommy races off to do what he wants, for however long it takes for him to eventually figure out that nobody has followed or is even going to. Then finally racing back and submitting to following someone else’s lead, sulking all the while about how nobody ever listens to him about anything.

Basically, letting Tommy take the lead in the more low-stakes engagements is just being efficient, in Billy’s opinion. The alternative takes way too long and his twin is a pain to deal with when in a heightened state of Sulk.

However, as to just how low-stakes or not this dinner actually is, well, that seems to be a matter of some debate between the twins, and not something Billy himself has even settled his opinion on.

Frequent high-pitched squeaks occasionally sound out from their corner of the table, most too quick to even register for anyone other than their uncle Pietro, who currently is still preoccupied with his extended staring contest against his diminutive rival in all things pertaining to ego and attempted sovereignty

If anyone else were even to register their existence or frequency, the combination of squeaks and Tommy’s repeated glares at his brother might lead to the conclusion that Billy is repeatedly poking or jabbing his twin in order to rein Tommy in from leaping into some fray or another and escalating the already existing tension to biblical proportions. As is his wont.

And Billy, at least, is enjoying his meal.

Well, he’s trying to, anyway.

But the closer he gets to completely clearing his plate, the more frequent Billy’s longing glances in the direction Luna had vanished become. Clearly, the teen is debating the merits of faking some ailment of his own and following his cousin’s example all the way to blessed, blessed relief from the chore of being the only one capable of saying “Tommy no” and actually producing an end result that isn’t just an accelerated timetable.

It’s not hard to tell when Billy’s inner war of his self-preserving tendencies vs his self-sacrificing tendencies is ultimately decided with a final score of Sanity: 1, Pointless and Unappreciated Gestures of Nobility: 0.

The seventeen year old sighs loudly and slumps back against his chair, his entire demeanor broadcasting an aura of “I give up” on so many clear wavelengths, it interrupts every skirmish currently in progress and results in every adult at the table sending concerned looks towards the twins’ corner of it.

Billy’s crossed arms and the empty space his gaze is determinedly fixed on combine to clearly convey he has nothing to do with whatever has happened or is about to happen.

Leading to every scrap of attention thus trekking further down the table to his twin, where Tommy is beaming with the brightness of a thousand supergiant stars about to go supernova and make a mess that will span galaxies and last for ten thousand years.

His Aunt Lorna’s own penchant for pretty explosions and fireworks has nothing on his, other than seniority.

Tommy’s own family knows that gleam in his eyes well enough to be aware their own immediate reactions should be duck and cover. Unfortunately, the Waynes’ dining room affords few actual defensive positions, all of which are already occupied by members of the Family Batshit. Resigning themselves to the inevitable, the Family Maximumoff Damage brace for impact.

Not being familiar with the gleam in Tommy’s eyes themselves, but more than observant (and paranoid) enough to recognize the braced positions of the other family and adapt accordingly, the members of the Family Batshit are all quick to follow suit.

Wanda meanwhile takes the scant seconds before collision to close her eyes and try to recall why she ever wanted children so desperately she literally wished them into existence.

She’s got nothing.

Dick uses the same time to gulp and take a deep breath, frantically trying to fortify himself with everything he knows of Wanda’s more....mayhem-inclined child. Hopefully he can use that intel to prepare contingencies for whatever fallout may follow in the next few seconds.

Ever the optimist, that one.

Into a silence stretching longer than a speedster in the spotlight has ever before allowed silence to linger - with Tommy clearly savoring the focused attention and abundant awareness of his Impact™ and reputation - the silver-haired teen grins with teeth bright enough to ignite the ensuing firestorm all on their own. The fateful words he finally utters almost seem overkill. At least until he finishes saying them and everything else ceases to matter, because boom.

Ignition.

“Hey Dick, if you end up marrying our mom, does that mean we can call you Dad?”

The silence that follows that particular detonation is akin to the death-knell of the dinosaurs, in the moments immediately after a giant asteroid wiped out 80% of life on the planet.

Then: anarchy.

“How dare you!” Damian launches himself out of his seat with what would normally be described as a hiss, were it not uttered at a decibel closer to being an actual sonic boom.

Jason looks like he can’t decide if he wants to fall to the ground laughing or fall to the ground tucking and rolling. To avoid having to make a decision, he grabs his until now untouched wine and guzzles it like a man who just found the only oasis in a hundred mile wide desert.

Lorna uncorks another bottle of wine and raises the whole thing like she’s toasting existence itself, on her way out the mortal coil’s exit-marked door. Kate thrusts her glass in front of Lorna for another refill.

“I know many lesbians can and do have kids in any number of ways, but do you think its okay if I cite this as proof we’re the highest evolved life form and if I was meant to have kids of my own, God wouldn’t have given me such an obvious hint as to the opposite?”

Kate absently muses to Lorna under her breath and out of the corner of her mouth, both of them still fixed on viewing the various diners turned statue-still by the Medusa like turn of the table’s conversations.

“It feels like that’s one of those things people tell me I should keep in my head and just gets me in trouble when I decide to share it instead, but honestly, I can never tell.”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Lorna whispers back. “I get possessed by this one psychic ghost enough that one of the few perks is I don’t have to worry about ticking people off anymore. Nowadays if I piss someone off, all I have to do is wait a couple of days and then say I was possessed again at the time. Then I just ask why the hell did nobody notice and dramatically make a lot of noise about that until everybody forgets what the hell they were even ticked at me for in the first place.”

“Ugh. Lucky bitch.”

Lorna shrugs with the faintest of smirks. “It’s all about just working with what you’ve got.”

Elsewhere at the table, Duke is frozen with his mouth still stuffed so full his cheeks are puffed out like a cartoon chipmunk’s. The only movements coming from his direction at all are the twin orbs that are his eyes, currently imitating tennis balls being rocketed back and forth across the court by pro players who never miss a swing.

Tim and Cass are clutching each others’ forearms, the closest either has come to displaying a panic reaction in literal years. In Cassandra’s case, more like in her entire lifetime.

But the title of ultimate attention draw is for the moment a dubious honor bestowed upon the Wayne patriarch himself.

Bruce leaps from his seat like an Olympic sprinter off the starting block, managing to catch up to his youngest before Damian plus Damian’s butter knife make it more than a foot towards Tommy. He snatches the twelve year old up by his waist, smoothly disarming his son and spinning around to plant himself between the boy and his target with the practiced and precise moves of the bedlam ballerina that he is.

“Umm,” Dick utters at last. His eyes fly wildly around the room as if seeking permission to land. They settle on making repeated loops of a race track that runs from Tommy’s smile of success to Damian’s enraged expression, and then to his own father’s attempt at a poker face: normally flawless, but now only warranting such acclaim if Bruce’s intention actually was to mimick the poker face of someone steadily ingesting lemons and nothing else throughout the course of a game.

Its not Dick’s finest work, obviously, but to be fair he’s also quite busy,trying to will himself through the floor. Possibly the Earth’s core while he’s at it. Results are still pending.

Meanwhile, unnoticed by the inhabitants of the dining room, Pietro’s ex Crystal has arrived as previously agreed, so she can pick up Luna and their daughter can spend the back half of the holiday with her mother and the latter’s teammates.

They were on their way to the dining room so Luna could say her goodbyes to her father, aunts, cousins and grandfather, when the current chaos had erupted.

Her own heroic impulses instinctively compelling her to charge in and attempt to help, Crystal’s tugged back by her daughter’s hand in hers. Knowing full well that Luna’s empathy-fueled instincts are superior to just about anyone else’s, Crystal halts and takes in the scene before them again, still with caution but with slightly less urgency.

“I suppose you have some idea what’s going on in there?”

Luna just smiles softly at her mother, as if shyly amused by the situation they’re witnessing.

“Did you hear how just when we were coming down the hall, Tommy said something about calling Wanda’s boyfriend ‘Dad’ if they get married?”

Crystal furrows her brow and nods; she hadn’t been paying that much attention, but one didn’t engage in superheroics (let alone marry and live with a hyper-active speedster) if one had poor situational awareness. Well one did, theoretically, but in such instances, one usually just died before gaining any kind of reputation or relevance.

“Well see, that set off Damian, Mr. Wayne’s youngest son and Dick’s baby brother - he was the one shouting ‘How dare you’ - “

“Don’t tell me this family has some kind of superiority complex about the twins or Wanda not being good enough for one of their own,” Crystal interrupted. The air around them crisped and heated even as a stray wind arose inside the manor and teased the ends of her hair into furious activity.

She and Pietro might not be together anymore, but her fondness for him and certain other members of his family hadn’t ceased to exist simply because their marriage no longer did. Wanda had been her friend for years before she and Pietro even began to date, and her twins were still Luna’s cousins. All of which made them still family as far as Crystal was concerned.

And she’d certainly put up with enough of her own family’s nonsense about nobody being good enough for one of them...more than she should have, to be honest, even if that was still ultimately the reason she’d cut ties with them and made her teammates her and her daughter’s true family. Crystal wasn’t about to stand idly by while strangers subjected her daughter’s cousins and aunt to more of that bullshit, even if they were hugely respected heroes of this universe’s Earth.

But Luna just shakes her head swiftly and decisively, and Crystal forces her metaphorical hackles to subside at her daughter’s apparent lack of concern.

“No, its nothing like that. Well, Damian’s kind of a brat sometimes, but it feels like he only acts out like that when he doesn’t have instincts about how to react to a given situation and he’s embarrassed about that. He had some kind of messed up childhood none of them like to talk about too much. But honestly, he feels more jealous right now than he does anything else. Aunt Wanda gave us all a rundown before we got here, about Dick’s family and things to not ask them about or bring up, and what kind of stuff they’d been told about us for similar reasons. Anyway, she told us Damian didn’t even live with their family until a few years ago, and when he first came to live with them there was a year when Mr. Wayne was missing and most of them thought he was dead....and so Dick was basically Damian’s first real kinda dad even before Mr. Wayne got a chance to be, and even though he’s been the one raising Damian ever since he got back, it sounded like there’s a lot of mixed feelings and confusion and tension between him, Mr. Wayne and Dick ever since.”

“And of course your cousin just couldn’t resist poking the elephant in the room, once he’d been made aware of its existence, if only to see what would happen,” Crystal sighs. That boy....

Not for the first time when around her ex’s family, she finds herself reminded to be grateful for the relationship she and her daughter share, mostly due to her daughter’s willingness to be understanding of others’ flaws, her own included. Crystal makes sure to will forth a wish for fortitude in Wanda’s direction while she’s at it. Couldn’t hurt.

And of course, speaking of Luna’s ability to be understanding....

“Tommy was just trying to have a little fun, he honestly didn’t mean any harm by it,” her daughter defends the cousin in question. “I know he didn’t really have any idea how much of a reaction he’d get, and just how deep and strongly they had about this. And I know it probably sounds like I’m just trying to make excuses for Tommy to keep him out of trouble, but maybe this is a good thing, that he made this happen? Because I can tell they definitely don’t talk a lot about these things or let them out in the open instead of trying to shove them down all the time. So Damian feels jealous, probably because he still has feelings of seeing Dick as a father that he feels he can’t act on because he doesn’t want to upset their actual dad or cause fights between them.”

"And I can feel Mr. Wayne feels jealous too, but of how Damian feels and the fact that he acted on what was so clearly jealousy to everyone else, but also he’s upset at himself, probably because he thinks its not right for him to feel jealous towards his own son and specifically because he and his brother have such a strong relationship and Dick did such a good job taking care of him when Mr. Wayne couldn’t. And then Dick feels guilty but also a little upset at himself as well, maybe because he knows he has nothing to feel guilty for? I’m not sure about that part, I haven’t totally gotten a feel for their usual emotional dynamics. But also he feels jealous too, and of Mr. Wayne, most likely because he gets to be Damian’s father and on some level Dick wishes that was still him occupying that role.”

“Maybe you should be explaining all of this to them instead of me,” Crystal concludes when her daughter finishes her run-through in a rush of hastily accelerated words. Luna is leaning to the side, as if trying to be subtle about craning to look around her at the drama on the other side.

“I will if they ask me to,” her daughter says, now sounding somewhat defensive of herself. “I don’t think they would have liked it much if I just tried to talk to them about all their feelings that they refuse to acknowledge or act upon, even just with each other in private.”

“Hmm,” Crystal just hums thoughtfully. Luna rushes to present the rest of her case, though Crystal still lacks a clear picture of just what the specific endgame is that her little schemer simply can’t resist trying to nudge things towards.

“Besides, like I said, maybe this was a good thing, Tommy got it out in the open where now they have to talk about it with each other, since its pretty undeniable to everyone. I mean everyone else in their family definitely feels kinda satisfied I think? No, vindicated. That’s it. I think they’ll be fine on their own. They all definitely love each other and if anything, the jealous feelings are all just from loving each other more than they feel they should or have a right to, because they don’t want to make one of their other family question whether they love them too. None of them have done anything bad or wants anything bad, they just need to talk it through.”

“Well that’s all good to hear, but it still sounds to me like there’s no real reason for us not to interrupt, and every possibility it might defuse some tension and give them all a little time to cool down before talking about things.” Crystal crosses her arms and looks down at Luna knowingly.

She might be the best daughter Crystal could have ever wished for, and light years more mature than anyone else her age, but she’s still only ten and every ten year old has room for more maturing.

Sure enough, her daughter squirms guiltily.

“I guess. But I still think its better to let things just happen on their own. You’re always telling me that my power isn’t permission to insert myself into the problems of everyone I meet. And that assuming otherwise can be bad for me too.”

“That’s true,” Crystal nods. All the same, her left eyebrow starts to climb. “However, another truth I’ve heard told to you by your father is if you ever feel guilty and are put on the spot for something, have two truths and a lie ready to explain yourself. And always lead with the lie.”

She loves Pietro still, she does, and she's at times even painfully aware of just how much she always will. But their vastly different ideas about parenting were just one of the reasons they hadn’t been able to make things work. She vividly recalls the time she’s referring to...and the argument she and her husband had immediately following it.

Pietro’s stance had always been that children were just little versions of who they’d grow up to be, and didn’t need to be taught dumbed down versions of the advice no one would a problem giving to the grown up versions of them.

“I see nothing inappropriate in teaching her that,” Pietro had said stubbornly at the time. “I do the same thing all the time and I’ve never attempted to pretend otherwise. In fact, I clearly remember explicitly describing that as my life philosophy on one of our earlier dates, and if I recall correctly, you laughed and called me a charming knave at the time. And I am of course remembering it correctly, as I have perfect recall listed among my numerous attributes.”

They never did reach an understanding about that particular bit of parenting. Probably because that argument had ended up seguing into the make-up sex that had kept them married far longer than they probably should have been.

Not that the latter detail is of any relevance at the moment. She coughs awkwardly.

In the here and now, their daughter continues to fidget beneath her mother’s now imperious gaze and newfound resolution to not allow her semi-fond nostalgia to cause her emotions to waver.

“Fine!” Luna groans at last, throwing up her hands in as explosive manner as the usually contemplative girl ever does anything. “I also don’t want to interrupt or go yet because I still have some of the popcorn Mr. Alfred made me and its really good and also if you had to have dinner with some of the most tense and repressed people on two different Earths, and feel everything they were trying to pretend they didn’t feel, you would want to at least get to enjoy the part where they finally stop doing that and get all dramatic and dumb. Are you happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Crystal says primly, fighting a smile at her daughter’s rare display of immaturity before remembering who she was talking to and ceasing to bother with the pretense. Besides, its not like she doesn’t have a point.

“But I believe we’ve also talked about people not being your personal entertainment,” she adds. It just feels like the kind of moment where she's supposed to say something along those lines. Even half-heartedly.

“But is it really my fault if people are being entertaining through no fault of my own, and I just happen to be nearby and have every right to just stay put until being right where I am stops being entertaining?” Her daughter counters.

The glint in her eye and the wry smile that says she knows she’s scented a moment of weakness and has no shame about pouncing on it - those are wholly among Pietro’s contribution to their child, and not anything Crystal can truly fault him for, at the end of the day. He is who he is, and part of that is who their daughter is, just as much as she is part of Crystal. She sighs and relents.

“If one of the Waynes catches us treating their conflict like a reality show and feels the slightest upset about it, it is your responsibility to either justify yourself to them too, or acknowledge responsibility for their upset. Whichever it takes to reverse the negativity you contributed. Understood?”

"Promise,” Luna says, bobbing her head repeatedly as she holds forth her hands, unprompted, to demonstrate that she has no fingers crossed as she did so. A follow up that has been normalized for years, given that crossing fingers behind one’s back is another one of the bits of parental wisdom Pietro had imparted upon their precocious daughter when she was younger.

Crystal just sighs once more and shakes her head fondly as she steps to the side and provides an unobstructed view through the open doorway across the room.

Back in the dining room, heedless of having garnered spectators to their spectacle, as well as equally heedless of the passage of time, the room’s inhabitants exist in a state of suspended animation.

Everyone knows a reaction to what just happened is required. That the pregnant pause persisting since then demands a clear follow up to the blatant display of certain emotions from certain parties. All of whom are usually quite certain they’d rather witness the end of the world than see those specific feelings slip out into the open where anyone could see them and from that, draw certain conclusions.

Nobody is confused on that front. Not even their guests from an entirely separate universe.

But the unthinkable has happened nevertheless, and as it has been neither preceded nor succeeded by any hint of an apocalypse, there is no alternative. The naked display of previously avoided topics can not in any way be avoided at this point. What was done was done and now things have to be said or done as a result.

The problem lies in the fact that not a single person present has the faintest idea of what those specific things were. And thus no one seems interested in showing any initiative in ending the stalemate that has been forged from the uncommon uncertainty that was their only commonality.

The rise and fall of chests are the only movements betraying that the tableau they set exists in all three dimensions, rather as a static snapshot someone had taken in commemoration.

And even breathing seems done reluctantly.

If cosmic entities such as Uatu the Watcher were prone to hyperbole, as the only other witnesses to the unprecedented anomaly, they might narrate that for a time it seems as though two of the most powerful and influential families of two different universes are fated to spend the rest of eternity existing in this rare moment. This endless moment where some of the most reckless, impulsive, tactical, analytical, insightful and decisive heroes to ever exist on two separate Earths......are all equally stricken with indecision and uncertainty as to what course of action to take next.

Who could even imagine what kind of consequences that might result in, for two entirely different multiverses? What deviations from intricately plotted grand designs that could cause, what opportunities might be missed, from the most potentially fortunate events that otherwise might stem from these various heroes’ heroics?

How far might the ripple effects of this seemingly innocuous moment in space and time reach? How many worlds might rise and fall, universes live and die, all because this one singular family, this comparatively tiny collection of dissonant souls who regardless of their frequent discord still manage to come together in harmony often enough to chart the course of cosmic events....

These unlikely conductors who at separate times are both the voices of the people, and the music of the spheres themselves? Their choices often doing more to directly affect various celestial bodies than the choices of entire civilizations added up across countless millennia?

Regardless of the degree of potential calamity, that remains a fate both universes will be spared their discovery of. For in this hour of need, where some of the prime movers and shakers of worlds sit motionless whilst hardly daring to breathe, all mutually frozen in their seats, all seemingly powerless to act or speak until someone releases them from this spell that has been cast upon the room and all within it....

Well, unto this unlikely conundrum, there arises an unlikely hero.

Not the hero anyone present deserves, perhaps, but certainly the hero they need.

And so it is that with great daring - and dare we say, even panache - a voice rings out loud and clear. One overflowing with bountiful mirth and a zest and zeal for life. Not to mention one brimming with reckless disregard for any potential consequences, even those not very dissimilar to the kind that have in years past made even the hardiest villains quail in fear...

And all at the same time, all undeniable, all contributing to the sudden spasm that erupts along the fault line that is Bruce Wayne’s entire face - that treacherous, forbidding chasm that exists at the edges of the two tectonic masses that are on one side his disapproval, and on the other side, the muscles that control his expressions...

Into that momentous stillness lands the only response truly appropriate, given the root cause of all of this.

“Awkwaaaaaaard,” Stephanie Brown sings out, half standing out of her chair to stretch across the table in front of Wanda and Duke in order to retrieve the gravy boat. She returns to her seated position and proceeds to slather her mashed potatoes with its contents, blithely paying no attention to the fact that all other faces in the room have swiveled to face her with stunned disbelief. “Seriously, I haven’t felt this uncomfortable since I farted in front of Superman.”

“When did you even get here?” Bruce frowns at her, exasperated enough that Damian is able to use his distraction to slip free of him and slink back to his own seat.

No one else has ever managed to achieve the depths of distraction Stephanie and Stephanie alone can push the usually unflappable Bat to. Or is it heights, and the joys of alliteration might need to be sacrificed upon the altar of accuracy? Whatever.

She pretty much considers it her superpower, though. She's still working out how to weaponize it for use on other targets. Or even better, how to capitalize on it for use when living Whilst Reluctantly Capitalist. Currently, she’s testing market research along the veins of blackmailing Bruce into paying her a monthly allowance in exchange for her keeping her levels of Intentionally Irritating him to below a Level Four on a ten point scale. Its her own custom model in the fashion of the ‘rate the pain with a number from one to ten’ scale, but she’s taken the liberty of specifically tailoring it to Bruce’s condition of Suffering Stephanie the Supreme’s Presence. She's pretty sure she’d ultimately settled on the title: “How much is my chewing gum while I’m supposed to be being sneaky causing you actual physical pain?”

There’s an itty bitty chance she actually picked something totally else on account of how she’d been super drunk at the time and she’s crap at reading her own handwriting so deciphering the notes she’d made while especially inspired were like....seventy percent guesswork.

But close enough, anyway, and also like, shut up and stuff. Wait. But is that really considered blackmail, technically speaking, or is it more like bribery? Not that it really makes a difference, but she does prefer being as precise as possible when listing her crimes slash achievements. It’s like. The principle. Or maybe the aesthetic? Whatever.

Really, though, this is just her and the Big Guy’s thing. Its just what they do. Their dynamo depiction of a duo doing things after their first take on being a Dynamic Duo detonated so disastrously. Yeah, she could never bear to part with her precious alliteration merely for the sake of precision. Its important to have clear priorities after all, and if it for whatever reason that probably will involve fifth dimensional imps, like, some nefarious ne’er-do-well demands she make a choice between alliteration and precision, well, she’s as of right now making an official ruling on which darling she’d kill first.

Sorry, precision, but you just haven’t done for me lately what alliteration has brought me in joy and also usefulness.

“Wait, my bad,” she realizes suddenly, on account of how everyone is staring at her when all she’s doing currently is stuffing her face like a pro. And as hype as she is on her ability to make anything she does look like a Feat™, she’s pretty sure she doesn’t make it look that good. “What was the question again?”

Bruce faces her fully, arms crossed in an attempt to restore himself and his dominion to some semblance of its usual order, his face schooled back in his usual Mona Lisa smile aka stone cold impassivity. Which nobody here was buying, for the record. Big faker.

“How long have you been here?” Asks Stone Cold Steve Austin, wait no, the Stone Cold Steve Faker. Faker Austin? Ugh, this is gonna bug her.

Also, nobody here is buying his voice as being Forbidding right now so much as just Deeply Embarrassed Because I Had Feelings And They Distracted Me. Honestly, she should start keeping a tally. For what, she’s not sure, but you never know what might come in handy some day. There’s a whole TV show about hoarders to back her up on that supposition. See? Science, suckers.

“I dunno. Since way before dinner even started though. Dude, I’m literally on my thirds.”

As if making a show of evidence, Steph shovels more meat in her mouth. She’s not entirely sure what they're even having, like it could be veal or lamb or turkey for all she knows - look, she never got around to mastering “How To Solve the Mystery of Mystery Meat” or whatever. She’d been busy learning how to tell the difference in blood spatters, because like, meat may be murder sometimes but murder is always murder and thus takes priority. Soooorry.

Point is, who knows what the fuck kind of meat it is, but its damn good and just further proof that Alfred is probably secretly God in disguise or maybe just a lower case g kinda one, but whichever, he and his culinary arts are definitely proof she’s too weak to ever walk the Way of the Vegan.

She finishes chewing fully before continuing. Because she’s a proper lady, obvy.

“And way to make with the Rudeness, B. I know I can pull off pretty much any look, but Fly On The Wall is not one of them. How dare you come for my self-esteem like this. I’ll sue you and get all your billions and use them to make a swimming pool of gold coins all Scrooge McDuck style, because its like, the one thing you could never and thus the perfect way to establish my dominance and stuff.”

“Has she seriously been here this whole time?” One of Dick’s girlfriend’s twin kids stage-whispers from the other length of the table. “How did we not notice before? Not exactly flying under the radar there.”

“I’m a goddamn social chameleon, that’s how, Cloud.” Stephanie jabs another meat-laden forkful in his direction for emphasis, on its way to her food hole. Ugh, bliss. “Also, I would be like, a kick-ass spy. But nobody ever gives me the spy jobs because everyone’s always like, you can’t be quiet or still or even serious for longer than five minutes, Stephanie, and I’m always like, umm, just because I choose not to doesn’t mean I can’t, but do they ever listen? Of course not.”

The kid wrinkles his nose at her. “Why did you call me Cloud?”

“Isn’t that the name of the Final Fantasy guy whose hair you ripped off?”

“Is it? I don’t know, I’ve never played. And maybe he ripped me off, you don’t know,” Not-Cloud says, looking suddenly intrigued, though who knows by which part.

Stephanie swivels towards Tim for confirmation. He looks back, vaguely irritated.

“Why does everyone always look at me for stuff like that? I have no idea. When exactly would I have time to be a gamer in the first place? And for the record, back when I had actual hobbies, I used to skateboard.”

“Jeez, sorry, Tony Hawk. I didn’t recogize you cuz I was too busy giving you mad props for that sick wicked half pipe ollie oopsie.” Steph rolls her eyes. Then she cocks her head to scrutinize him more fully and maybe give him a serious answer. She settles for flapping a hand at him vaguely as she says, “And you just have like, a certain Quality about you or whatever. I don’t know what it is.”

“She doesn’t even live here,” Bruce says, almost plaintively. Y’know. If he were someone who does anything plaintively ever.

“She’s our guest,” Cass says, almost primly. Y’know. If she were someone who does anything primly ever. “You’re being rude.”

Steph plasters on her most injured expression, the better to make like Exhibit A when Cass sweeps an arm towards her for demonstration.

Also though, oh shit, oh shit, look whose internal monologue stumble-stepped into a motif. She’s Emily Dickenson-ing this place up tonight. Finally, someone bringing a little class into the House of Ass. You’re welcome, all the ghosts of Bruce’s equally gloomy ancestors who definitely haunt this place on the regular.

“Yeah, Alfred has always impressed upon us that there are certain protocols for how we’re supposed to treat guests in our home, Bruce,” Tim adds in a tone that was equal parts thoughtful musing and suppressed merriment.

He slides a smirk down the table to Steph. His own irritation of 7.5 seconds prior has completely evaporated into the ether, because that’s just how they roll. Look at them, making with the maturity like they’re just a couple of motherfucking bosses. She’s seriously so impressed with the both of them on their own behalves.

“If I were a betting man,” Tim continues nonchalantly, “I’d put down money that hanging on to guest privileges is one of the main reasons she turned down that adoption offer we all pretend we don’t know B’s definitely given her at some point.”

“Or maybe that’s just what you tell yourself, being the one whose dating history with Steph makes adopted siblinghood seem weird and icky and stuff,” Duke suggests from further down the table. He smirks, lounging in a way that looks lazy and careless to those uninitiated in the sacred Bat arts of being anal about everything at all times, like literally even when just looking at things. Because B-Man’s secret superpower is how to make anything boring, even things that are literally just using your eyes.

Though in defense of B but also like, the years of their lives they’ve all committed to obsessively training themselves according to his fucking anal doctrines anyway, like a bunch of absolute suckers, there is an upside to all that anal retention. Such as how people who make healthy but boring life choices would look at Duke right now and be like oh shit, that kid’s about two seconds from falling asleep like he’s a cat and that’s a super inconvenient place for him to fall asleep, which everyone knows is basically the same thing as Kitty Nirvana.

But meanwhile, the other teen still clearly shows all the checked boxes that spell out hey this dude could be ready to kick your ass in 2.5 seconds, like just give him a reason punk, he’s ready to go. Or at least, that’s how he registers to those of them with Bat-supersenses that aren’t actually super but really just the end result of lots of boring training exercises that honestly don’t sound anywhere near as cool so just let them have this.

Point is she totally lost track of her point, but then Duke follows up with an accusing pointer finger aimed at Tim, one appropriately dramatic and just like, making her so gosh darn proud of the latest castaway to wash ashore on their weird ass little Island Of Misfit Toys. Kids. They grow up so fast.

“Of course you wanna distract everyone from how you’re a Sister Depriver,” Duke intones, putting some super thematic bass into his boom. That right there, that little something extra...that’s how you make fucking art. Hot damn. “And as a result, poor Cass has to bear the weight of being the only girl in the Wayne clan all by herself. For shame, Timothy.”

“Yeah, Timothy,” Cass echoes smugly. “For shame.”

Tim shoots betrayed eyes at her, but its his own fault for forgetting the Cardinal Rule Of Cass: her allegiances are fickle and prone to shifting in the direction of greatest potential drama. Cass loves drama. Lives for it. Something about how refreshing it is to be able to immerse herself in the movements of people who are actively trying to speak or act in contradiction to what their body really wants to say, instead of just being lying douchebags who necessitate caution when they do anything similar.

The rest of them are split 50/50 as to whether that’s true and heartwrenching, or whether its well-played Cass bullshit aimed at distracting them from what a gossip-loving drama queen she really is.

“Whatever,” Jason says dismissively as he chimes in. He swipes the last few exchanges out of the way like they’re open apps he’s not using at the moment and he’s all uh, you can go now, losers. “The real issue here is that obviously the Old Man has never figured out how to interact with a teenager or young adult he hasn’t adopted or can’t adopt. Middle D over there is proof that even B’s vaunted no meta rule isn’t really a dealbreaker, so betcha the real reason Dickie and Tim’s Titan friends never come over is because their parentals are worried about B trying to snatch them up too. And since B adopts, fosters or otherwise absorbs via osmosis every other kid or teen he comes across, there’s never been a control group for him to practice his non-adoption-intending behavior on other kids. And no practice means no way of being perfect at that, and we all know how not being perfect at something makes B cranky as fuck.”

Duke takes a beat to contort his face into a Rubik’s Cube of half-formed and hastily discarded expressions. Most likely trying to work through whether Middle D counts as a weird-ass endearment for this particular family, or something he’s gonna be endlessly annoyed by if it happens to catch on. Its a process, especially considering it has to be filtered through the Jason to English dictionary first.

Finally he just shrugs in a lazy non-reaction that in Batspeak manages to count as a challenge. Basically a ‘try and guess what I decided if you can, chump.’

Jason’s face morphs Terminator style. The later ones, not the Governator model. He ends up displaying a mash-up: the smirk of inevitable victory meets the narrowed eyebrows of intent focus as bestowed upon a worthy foe.

Then the whole piece makes like an Etch-a-Sketch and is wiped completely away before being replaced with an annoyed jaw clench.

“Jay’s theory game is strong,” is the route Duke ends up taking though. “And here we thought the reason Bruce always says no about Superboy coming over is to prevent him from being a Brother Defiler. But all along it was just the insidious work of a Brother Depriver, with Superman himself being the culprit who told B hands off, this one’s mine. It all makes sense now! Superboy even fits the standard issue black hair and blue eyed, in store model.”

He tips his head towards the older boy in a gesture of appreciation for Jay’s detective work and connect the dots high score. Jason scowls back. By the standards of the Family Batshit, he’s clearly been caught off guard. With him so readily taking up the implied but not outright stated challenge teased by the younger boy, he’d completely failed to prepare for the compliments Duke then followed up with instead.

His siblings hide snickers behind faked coughs and gratuitous napkin usage. He’s netted himself an undeniable loss, according to the intricate rules and traditions of their family - ironically, many of which had been laid down by Jason himself when first established back in the misty years of yore. That mysterious, little spoken of era of legend and mystery, one that is nevertheless oft whispered of in hushed rumors and hearsay. The time before time, better known to the Bats and Birds as The Age of The First Two Robins.

If it had just been the family present, it might have been a different matter, but the presence of others changed things. Cuz see, in the eyes of anyone who isn’t a member of their observation obsessed and perpetually paranoid family, the relatively minute exchange between the two boys no doubt looked like Jason had been needlessly aggressive while the younger boy was just trying to pay him a compliment.

In a nutshell, Duke goaded Jason with what seemed like a challenge but didn’t technically count, so Jason’s attempt at responding to Duke’s not-challenge actually counted as the first actual sign of aggression, which Duke neatly side-stepped by already being in the process of paying Jay a compliment between the time Jay actually launched his challenge but before it actually landed.

Ergo, Duke wins.

Look, if its hard to follow, that’s probably for the best. They’re all pretty sure stuff like that isn’t supposed to make as much sense as it does to them.

Jason huffs but then finally heaves a sigh and tosses a tight-lipped and grudging but genuine nod of acknowledgment down the table to Duke. Despite himself, he can’t help but be a little impressed by the kid, having already picked up on even the more minute ins and outs of their family’s complicated interactions. But then, of course the younger boy is as precocious as the rest of them. Their family could single-handedly keep the nature vs nurture debate going for centuries.

Duke beams back before licking the tip of a finger and painting a single stroke in the air in front of him. A clear declaration that this round of the Batkids’ never-ending game goes to him. Jason rolls his eyes but can’t exactly begrudge him his endzone dance. Its not like he’s known for being graceful and gracious in victory either.

Come to think of it, none of them are. Huh. That explains a lot, probably.

Its at this moment that Dick finally regains enough composure to make his presence felt again.

Its understandable, really, the others acknowledge via conspiratorial looks of sibling solidarity that bounce their way rapidly across the table by way of their patented younger sibling network.

Anyone would have trouble juggling the combined stressors of introducing the girlfriend’s family, mediating their own eternal family mayhem, and on top of all that, seeing shoved into the spotlight his ‘shh, we don’t talk about that, what are you, new,” tendencies towards acting parentally protective and possessive of Damian, even with (and at times especially with) Bruce himself.

Not to mention the occasional clashes over the parenting strategy, or lack thereof, that Bruce still manages at times to bumble like the perfect dope that he is. Because if anyone has super strong feelings about Bruce’s parenting and no patience whatsoever for watching their father repeatedly fail to learn from his mistakes, well. That’s all Dick’s territory.

So with all of that kept firmly in mind like the efficient little multi-taskers they all know how to be (when they feel like it), they’re all poised to lend Dick a certain amount of leeway in how much amusement they enjoy at his expense today.

In all fairness to them, its not like he makes it easy. They had perhaps overestimated just how well Dick was juggling the various stressors in play today. After all, you can take the acrobat out of the circus, but that doesn’t mean jack shit about whether or not he can juggle because that’s an entirely different skillset, duh.

Hindsight’s not just sometimes a bitch. Its sometimes quite bitchy as well. Ugh, their subconscious minds could be such brats, honestly.

Look, the point is, even as they all patiently watch their eldest brother struggle his way back to a state of coherency and and managing to be present in the actual present, they’re still expecting him to pop out the other side with something at least approaching poise.

Instead, they get an encore.

“Umm,” Dick utters at last.

Tim buries his face in his hands. Duke tilts his head back and mutters prayers to some higher power. Cass closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly and sorrowfully. Lorna reaches across the table with her wine bottle and refreshes her sister’s glass. Wanda looks like she needs it.

Damian sits with arms crossed over his chest and scowl firmly directed at the table top, Judging Everything. Then again, that is still his default setting and pretty much what he’s been doing all night anyway. Say whatever else you want to about the kid, Steph reflects, but when he commits to a theme, hoo boy.

Jason, meanwhile, has thrown himself bodily at his brother, clamping a hand over the older man’s mouth and stage-whispering with exaggerated emphasis: “Careful! You could set off the exact same chain of events and we’ll all end up trapped in an eternal time loop we can never break free of! I mean, its practically a guarantee, if you combine my knack for being in the worst place at the worst possible time, Tim’s shitty spleen-phobic luck, Cass’ destined to someday prove ironically prophetic name, and your own lightning rod-esque ability to attract cosmic-level catastrophes to you like you’re catnip and they’re really just a cute little furball named Fluffy McWhiskerson.”

“Must you always insist on going the extra mile when being ridiculous, Todd?” Damian cuts in testily. Also, cuttingly.

“Shut the fuck up. It’s my coping mechanism for being part of a family that goes that extra ridiculous mile every damn day.”

“And people wonder what possible reasons I could have for not wanting to be adopted into this family and instead hanging onto a golden parachute option?”

Steph wonders aloud (and loudly) as she maneuvers the side of her fork around her plate like its a zamboni hard at work on an ice rink. Really, she just refuses to let a single scrape of Alfred’s home-made mashed potatoes go to waste. She’s not some heathen.

“You. You seem pretty smart.” That loaded statement and the finger pointed in her direction come courtesy of the Final Fantasy kid whose name may or may not be Cloud but probably isn’t, which is a shame, because Cloud is a pretty kick-ass name in Steph’s estimation. Not that anyone asks. Typical.

Also, where did they end up landing on the subject of what his name should be? Or is? Whatever? Was there a flowchart passed out at some point and she just missed it while busy being fabulous, or was this an actual oversight on B’s part and thus something they should all bring up as often as possible from now until the end of time?

No doubt spurred by a desire to be absent from whatever follows his twin’s newest train of thought, Billy raises his hand half-heartedly. No one bothers to point out the absurdity of raising his hand like he’s in school. He just seems like its a thing with him. He has that certain Quality, Steph decides.

“Can I be excused?”

Nobody seems sure who he’s asking, so its probably okay that nobody responds to grant permission. Besides, suffering through the awkwardness and drama like the rest of them is probably like, good for building character or something.

After about half a minute, Billy nods to himself as if that’s about what he’d expected. He lowers his hand again and uses it to prop up his head as he slumps over the table and idly sketches patterns atop the antique oak surface.

“I’m a galaxy-brain level intellect, you little Silver Whatever-the-Adorable-Baby version of a Fox is called,” Steph declares at last, jabbing her finger right back at the apparent Greater of Twin Evils. Y’know. To see how much he likes it. But also just because its fun to make like a drama queen in a place like Wayne Manor. Ambiance really is everything. “I even took my SATs and correctly informed the moderator that I was in fact there for the SATs and hadn’t gotten them mixed up with my ACTs.”

“Hmm,” the twerp says then, not at all appearing to be taught a lesson by her dramatic finger pointing reversal. He sweeps his eyes over her, assessing. Given that she hasn’t decided yet if she even likes the little twerp, let alone what he’s trying to assess and also if she even gives a shit on account of she might not even like the little twerp, Stephanie splits the difference and settles for combining bitch face with her best “How you like me now,” pose. Let him make of it what he will. ‘Snot like she knows what she’s going for there.

Also, its probably rendered slightly less effective due to her forgetting to factor in that she’s sitting and not standing, but whatever, she commits like a champ. Also, she’s still at most 60/40 on the liking of the twerp, so who even cares, honestly.

“I used to be able to count on my own smarts,” Platinum Punk says, seemingly settled on an opinion at last. “But I naively gambled that away in the name of wishing upon a star for family or what the frick ever, and I forgot to set wish parameters for ‘and also please let them all not be completely nuts.’”

“Watch the ableism please, sweetheart,” Wanda says with a long-suffering sigh.

“Sorry, Mom,” he says with an eye roll that nevertheless seems to somehow satisfy her. “But see? I’ll get a lecture about my language, but I skip school with my friends to fight giant robots in Times Square and she doesn’t bat an eye. My family’s priorities are not like your Earth’s priorities.”

“Or my Earth’s priorities,” he adds as an afterthought. “Or any Earth’s, probably. Maybe not some really weird and out there Earth, but they don’t count, probably.”

“Well I don’t like it, certainly, but I don’t want to be a hypocrite,” Wanda says defensively. “When I was your age, I was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list for being a mutant terrorist. All things considered, I have relatively few objections about how you and your brother spend your time.”

Several members of the Family Batshit direct eyes that are ever so slightly on the wide side. She meets them with an unapologetic shrug.

“I had a complicated childhood. I got over it.”

Lorna snorts into her wineglass. Wanda shoots her sister an annoyed glare, but still amends her statement.

“Mostly, anyway.”

Lorna smirks and waves her glass in some attempt at a meaningful gesture. Who knows what its actually meant to be. She seems to accept the amendment, at least.

“Please excuse our dear little sis her porcine displays of condescension,” Pietro interjects in silky smooth tones that do nothing to hide the sharp edges thinly veiled underneath. “She didn’t grow up with us and our dear, doting daddy, yet has never lacked for opinions on what superior choices she would have made in our positions. The fact that she’s still made plenty terrible choices of her own, is apparently quite irrelevant.”

His green-haired sister opens her eyes artfully wide and projects feigned innocence. “None of those were my fault. I was possessed a lot by a very evil psychic. Who, if you recall, actually called herself Malice. The evil was right there in her name. Advertised. I was innocent. She was evil.”

Pietro swirls his own wineglass, unimpressed. The other set of siblings have clearly been down this road a time or two themselves.

“I was primarily referring to your romantic history with a Summers. And not even the competent or aesthetically pleasing one, at that,” he drawls.

“She also had terrible taste.”

“Anyway, not to tear focus away from discussion of my dear auntie’s romantic selection process, as she and Uncle Pietro both lack the shame gene and they absolutely can and will traumatize all present via a thorough analysis of each other’s past partners in the most bizarre game of sexual chicken you will ever have the misfortune to witness...”

“Bold of him to make that claim when he’s never seen Dick and Jason do the exact same thing for the exact same reasons,” Tim mutters. Cass and Duke both nod. Jason glares, but seems stuck at the ‘come up with actual proof that he’s actually wrong’ stage of the rebuttal process. Dick has by now returned to the land of the living, but seems to have along the way decided discretion is the better part of valor as best guess is he’s currently preoccupied weighing the pros and cons of potential escape routes.

“Hey, Shiny Pokemon version of Sonic the Hedgehog,” Stephanie snaps her fingers and hopskips the focus back on the speedster in question. She waves her hand at the rest of the sound and fury occupying the table with them, as if to express just how much it all signifies nothing. “Just get to the point already and leave out anything else that these vile miscreants could possibly hijack and turn into tangents. You’ll never make it through a conversation in this house otherwise. Everyone here is expertly trained and practiced in the art of derailing the most obstinate and tunnel-visioned man in history from reaching his point whenever that point is deemed destined to make our day end poorly.”

“Some of us just happen to be better at that than others,” Jason says with smug confidence, twirling his butter knife lazily.

“Ironic, coming from the one trick pony,” Tim says dryly. Jason leans forward and raises his knife-wielding hand and Tim quickly raises his hands in a defensive gesture that’s clearly not meant to indicate he sees an actual threat, more just aimed at beating his brother to the punch with the rest of his punchline. “Sorry, I miscounted. I mean the one and a half trick pony.”

Steph clears her throat pointedly and looks back at Platinum Ken Doll. He just sighs in full gloom and slumps down in eerie symmetry with his twin. He definitely is the superior practitioner of the Sulk.

“Never mind,” he says melodramatically. “It wasn’t even a big deal anyway, just stuff I was trying to be like, snarky about or whatever, but the moment’s passed and it’s just kinda dumb and pointless without feeling like, natural or whatever.”

“Probably,” Stephanie agrees unsympathetically, because hey, when you’re right, you’re right. She doesn’t believe in coddling the youths, especially not the ones who are realistically only two years younger than herself at the most. “But you’ve managed to pique my interest enough that not knowing what you were going to say is randomly gonna bug me at 2 am or something obnoxious like that. Also, you started to praise my intellect and I don’t let things like that go unfinished. It sets a bad precedent. Now c’mon. Speak up. Praise me. Enunciate, so Damian can’t pretend he doesn’t hear you just because he’s trying to set the table on fire with just the searing intensity of his disdain.”

Damian responds with a gesture that he definitely didn’t learn from Dick, but on second thought, he probably did.

“That’s the spirit,” she said. “Keep on keeping on, slugger. If anyone can develop the ability to cause spontaneous combustion with nothing but willpower and spite, its Angst in the key of D Minor himself. I believe in you, kiddo!”

If she weren’t actually being full of shit about that, she might be in trouble from the glare Damian follows that with. Ashes to ashes and all that good stuff. But as rage-vision still refuses to make an appearance, the baby of the family in age and irony only retreats to the support of his high-backed chair.

Looking more adorable than he’d hopefully ever comprehend, lest he attempt to weaponize that as an addition to his armory, he slouches down and mutters something that makes Jason’s eyebrows climb his skull like they’re trying to set a speed record for making it all the way to the top.

It’d been in one of the languages that Damian knew and that her own circle of languages learned share no overlap with, but she mentally repeats it sound for sound in her head until she locks it in. Anything that can make Jason look that impressed is worth knowing, and translating something phonetically from an unknown language is nothing Google can’t handle.

And by Google she meant Tim, but that’s what ex-boyfriends are for, right? She’s fairly certain she saw that on a T-shirt somewhere, which is basically the same thing as true.

Anyway. Back to the praises that are supposed to be being sung, and yet weirdly, she still hears no singing. Steph boomerangs her focus back down the table to Smugness in Silver, and oozes impatience and expectations out her pores at him like emotions are contagious and she’s a cooties hotspot.

Fumbling from a clear unease with this particular kind of spotlight, and also how it’d admittedly been a weird fucking night for everyone concerned, the younger teen at last manages to self-consciously eke out: “Look, I said it was dumb now. I seriously was just gonna make a joke about you being too smart to get sucked into a weird ass family with endless drama without having an escape clause, and I was just gonna be like, teach me your ways or y’know. Whatever.”

“Wait!” Stephanie stops him right there with a palm outstretched in the universal sign for hold the fucking fuck the fuck up. She leans towards him, and in a voice pitched low and even but vibrating with barely leashed intensity, she asks him the only question that could possibly matter now:

“Was that last bit actually part of the joke you were going to make? The thing you were trying to say from the get go, not just something you said right now because you got confidence diarrhea and stopped using the words good?”

“Uh, yeah?” He says warily.

Stephanie slaps both her hands on the table’s surface, loudly enough to make most everyone jump a little in their seats, and forcefully enough to rattle some dishware and make her inner monologue hiss oww and yell at her for unnecessary roughness. She ignores herself, on account of having much more important things to deal with.

Launching herself to her feet, she leans into her palms where they press down on the table, giving herself a little bit of Loom to go with the gravity she forces onto her face. Glee is waging a valiant effort at retaking the lost ground, but she’s always insisted that she has excellent self-control, dagnabbit, and Stephanie Brown is many, many things, but she’s no liar.

Well, except for the times she is. But there are always reasons or like, extenuating circumstances for those.

Usually.

“I accept the honor and responsibility of being your Family Drama Sensei, and I shall teach you everything I know and also some stuff I make up just to fuck with you, because I’m not like Other Mentors. I demand and expect some giggles to go with the shits, or what’s even the point, y’know? First lesson: that was rhetorical! I say y’know a lot and when I actually expect an answer I’ll also be like omg hurry up, I aged 84 years waiting for you to say something already. Got it?”

The Twin That Could Have Probably Starred In Twilight blinks dazedly at her. He then turns to look at the rest of the table.

“Is she serious?”

“Deadly,” Steph intones, before one of these naysayers could nay on her say and potentially undercut her authority with her new minion. Uh, she means, like, henchkid. Sorry, sidekick. Shit. Crap - protege! That was what she has, a protege! Hah!

“For real?” He asks, doubtfully. She frowns. Is she stuttering?

“So real I make reality look fake,” she assures him gravely. He blinks some more. He does that a lot, she notes, like a Good Mentor who notices stuff about her mentee.

“Okay, see, because that wasn’t really what I was going for?” He says cautiously.

She rolls her eyes. C’mon kid, she doesn’t bite, except for like, sexy stuff and eww no, he’s like twelve. Well sixteen probably, but that’s basically the same thing as twelve. Also they had a lot of work to do on the spine-having thing because this sorta bit right here is totally gonna make her look bad in front of all the other mentors, if it doesn’t exit stage right, like post haste. And what not.

She doesn’t say any of that that out loud though. She’s not sure they’re there yet.

“Like, I was aiming more for just....a...I don’t know, a hah-hah?”

He leans back slightly, adding a little distance as he looks at her like she’s part of the craziness he needs help surviving instead of his sensei in all things suited to surviving the craziness. Ugh, she has so much work to do with this one. Its a good thing she’s always been pretty sure she’d make an excellent mentor, so like, qualifications. She has them. Obvy.

“La la la, I can’t hear you but also no take-backsies. You’re part of a legacy now. Or lineage. Or whatever the word is that’s not actually about dog family trees. Look, the point is by virtue of being my first ever protege and also the first protege of anyone who isn’t Dick or Babs who both don’t even count anyway because Reasons, you are now part of the grand tradition that is being a Bats and Birds person...partner...sidekick...thingie. Look, we don’t have the terminology all worked out yet. Like I said this is basically new territory except for Dick and Babs who don’t count and also Bruce, but he mostly communicates via grunts and scowls anyway, rendering most terminology moot.”

“What’s happening right now?” Her protege asks to no one in particular. Ugh. Unacceptable. She’s taking twenty points from House Twilight whenever she finishes reading those damn books and figures out just how that whole thing works.

“Okay, so the big takeaway from your first lesson here, because fuck that being cryptic noise, mentors who are always like ‘you have to figure out what you’re supposed to be learning here and then also learn it’ like, ugh, no. The worst, seriously.”

Look, occasionally detours are probably inevitable, but the important part is that she remain strong when doggy-paddling determinedly towards her point, because good mentors can handle occasional detours and don’t treat them like Kryptonite that’s gonna kill them all when they’re literally just sparring in the Cave, like, perspective, have some, y’know?

And also they don’t need to stop every couple hours into training so they can have temper tantrums because their kids are like, no dad, we can’t hang out today because that’s a thing that kinda happens when little kid people turn into bigger people people, like oh noes, gasp, horror. And then they have to go stomp around and make that everyone else’s problem because no matter how much they insist they’re loners, they actually really suck at being alone. Even though you’d think that mastering that particular skill would logically come first before you get around to training to say shit like “I am the Night, my dude,” with a straight face.

Its faintly occurring to her that she might actually have unresolved issues about Bruce and her brief apprentice-ship thingie with him. And also maybe its not super awesome conclusion and also the follow-up to all that bit of bother, all of which gargled a fair amount of donkey balls.

Ugh. Epiphanies are such losers. Literally who asked.

“Ahem. Anyway. Big takeaway. Teachable moment. Right. So yeah, first big thing is commitment. You start something, you see it through, got it? In this family and otherwise vaguely affiliated network of mentors and mentees, we don’t do take-backsies, okay? Its a matter of pride. Principle. Also, maybe brain damage. Like I said, this all really started with Dick, and he does get hit and shot in the head a whole lot, so admittedly, the rest of us do have some. Y’know. Questions. Now you sit there and absorb all that for a second. Like a sponge. See yourself as a sponge. Be the sponge. Good sponge.”

Wisdom having been successfully imparted, Steph nods in satisfaction and then spins to take in the rest of the room, hands planted on her hips Wonder Woman style, because power poses are totally gonna be lesson two.

Her eyes find their way to Bruce easily enough, which makes sense seeing as how his scowl takes up half the room. Any room. Okay, at this point she's willing to jot that whole might have issues thing down as okay so maybe she definitely has unresolved issues with Bruce. So what? She also has a protege, albeit one who probably does need some more convincing to fully be on board, but the point remains that like. Whatever. Suck her entire ass.

“Well,” she declares loftily, as if she’s not just talking directly to the B-Man. Plausible deniability, yo. Just because she’s willing to admit to herself that she maybe definitely has issues to still sort through, that doesn’t mean she has to like. Go around admitting that to other people. She’s not some kind of heathen. “I trust that we’ll all remember where we were when it was undeniably revealed that I, Stephanie Brown, do in fact have Wisdom and Experiences to share with the youths of tomorrow. As that is a thing that just happened. Lo!”

“I have witnesses,” Steph declares with the dial set all the way to Peak Drama, because look, if you can’t lean into the drama in Wayne Freaking Manor, life is empty and meaningless and that’s gonna be her supervillain origin story, probably. She throws out an arm towards the rest of the table, encompassing the dual rows of expressions that could best be described as bemused - if she were being generous and also lying out her freaking ass.

Still, she stands firm in the silence that follows her ringing proclamation, allowing not the slightest hint of self-consciousness slip free of her self control, because she’d literally just made a big deal about how it was all about committing, and Stephanie Brown might be many things, but a hypocrite is not one of them.

Well, other than - nope. Not doing that again. Upon reflection and careful examination of what really matters, accuracy also can be invited to suck the proverbial it.

Besides, there’s too much at stake for her to allow any weakness to betray her now. This is a momentous moment. Clash of the Stubbornness kinda stuff. She’s facing down Punky Brucester himself, and on his own turf of all places. Things like principles....and...and being right, all hang in the balance.

And yes, Stephanie is well aware that she has left even Peak Drama in the dust aeons ago, and they’re deep in uncharted waters now, with like, here there be dragons, lurking dramatically. So what if she’s being ridiculous? She maintains that he had started it, she’s like 99% she is being not at all irrational and unreasonable about that, and by God, she will have her vindication or she will have....whatever the tail end of that cliche goes like. Unless its death, because she kinda sorta already did that, and as far as she’s concerned it counted, and either way, she’s way over it and not looking for reruns.

All the while, Bruce stares her down with his face doing that resting I’m Judging You Face thing that nobody can be that oblivious to walking around with all the time, no matter what they may claim in liar-esque fashion.

Though, for all her various unresolved issues with him or whatever, she can admit to herself that the man is a goddamn master of conveying a bitch could care less. She’d sat on gargoyles that had served more face than Mr. I Could Be Listening To You Right Now or I Could Actually Be Thinking Boring Rich Asshole Stuff Like Whats Up With the Stock Market Today, LOL You’ll Never Know.

She upgrades her ‘Think About Issues’ notification to a maybe consider talking to someone about some of this stuff level.

When Bruce’s carefully placid facade finally breaks, then, it doesn’t break so much as it freaking shatters. Further evidence of this definitely being her superpower, which means time to move on to asking like, ugh why such an obnoxiously specific superpower, tho.

“She doesn’t even live here!” Bruce thunders again. Or some synonym that still means loud and forceful but also being desperate and totes whining. The Big Guy turns to face his children imploringly. He throws an arm in Steph’s direction for accusatory emphasis. Y’know. All dramatic like.

Oh shit. Maybe she did pick up some things from him after all.

Ugh. Okay, never mind, its definitely epiphanies that are gonna be her supervillain origin story. Seriously.

Fuck those guys.

11 notes · View notes

dalekofchaos · 5 years

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List of ways they could’ve handled Luke in the Sequel Trilogy

My other Sequel trilogy wasted potential posts

Rey

Finn

Poe

Rose

Luke

Han

Leia

Kylo Ren

Hux

Captain Phasma

Snoke

Actually use Luke in The Force Awakens. Don’t waste Mark Hamill. Don’t exclude him from marketing. Don’t force him to be on a mountain and say no lines whatsoever.

Have Luke’s big reveal be on Starkiller Base. Use Mark Hamill’s suggestion. ‘You can still have me come in at the very end, but how about this. How about Leia’s trying to contact me telepathically, she gets frustrated because there’s no answers, so she rushes to the new Death Star’–that’s three, so far.”He continued, “‘And she almost gets there but she gets stopped by two Stormtroopers and, just before she’s abducted, one Stormtrooper turns to the other one, blows him away, pulls off his helmet and says “Hi, sis, I’m here to rescue you.”‘ I say, ‘It’ll blow the roof off the joint, I’m still in it at the very end.'”“I think it’s more effective to have people that really have a history with Han Solo witness his death and be unable to stop it,” the actor claimed. “His wife, the mother of his child, his best friend, instead of two characters that have known him, what, 20 minutes?”

Use Mark’s other suggestion. After Finn is knocked unconscious, have the person who lifts the Skywalker Lightsaber be Luke. Luke duels Kylo and defeats his nephew and saves Rey and Finn. I know Jedi and force sensitives are more durable than normal people, but if you are thrown into a tree, you are going to be unconscious for at least an hour. So yes Luke being the one to lift the lightsaber would’ve been much better. It would’ve been a great entrance. The entire audience would have been cheering as they witness Luke’s return. Luke helps Chewie getting Rey and Finn aboard the Falcon and returns to D’Qar. Reunites with Leia and ends with Luke, Rey and Finn flying to the Ancient Jedi Temple on Ach-To preparing to train the new Jedi.

Luke grieves for Han

Luke actually trying to help Ben as a Padawan, but it is in vain as he already turned to the dark side and made his choice.

Luke will tell Rey why he left the map behind. He wanted Leia to come and find him. It is revealed that Luke did not run away, did not even consider running away, but rather went looking for the Jedi’s beginnings find the balance of dark and light–Luke Skywalker felt Rey and Finn awaken across half the galaxy, and settled on Ach-To, and waited.

Let Luke and Rey have a meaningful mentor and student relationship. Luke trains Rey, Rey develops her skills and Rey has a father figure that shows her place in the galaxy

Reveal that Luke is Rey’s father. After Rey falls into the dark side cave, Luke finds her and brings her near the fire and is there to comfort her. Then the revelation happens. Rey says “I’ve never felt so alone.” And we get Luke telling her “the force is strong in my family. My father had it, I have it, my sister has it and my daughter has it” “There is a reason you dreamed of this place.” “You were never meant to be left on Jakku…I thought you died the night in the academy.” “All those years. I was so alone.” “I know. I’m sorry.” “Did you ever try to find me?” “Of course. For so long I searched the galaxy for you. Everyone said that you had died that night in the temple, that I should give up searching. But through the force, I could still feel you. I knew you were still alive. Every face I seen, it was your. Every voice I heard, it was yours. It drove me crazy. I came to this island, turned away from the force because it was so hard. Feeling that you were somewhere in the galaxy and being unable to find you. Seeing you in front of me right now… I’ve never felt so lucky.” And Rey with tears in her eyes. “I waited so long for you and your finally here” they embrace, father and daughter reunited.” Rey then asks about her mother. Luke sadly says “her name was Mara Jade and she loved you very much.” Rey why she was left on Jakku. “Because of your cousin Ben, Kylo Ren.” Luke tells her that after a decade of training Ben, and fighting to keep the dark side at bay, Ben turned to the dark side because his family kept the secret that Darth Vader was his grandfather. He still wanted to help his nephew and save him from Snoke. One night he went to him to talk to him, Ben saw this as Luke being afraid of his power and Ben was the one to strike first. And then he woke up to see the other Jedi Masters dead. His wife Mara Jade dead and even the younglings dead. Only six other Jedi left with Ben, those who would become the Knights Of Ren. Rey left with Ben because she trusted her cousin and she couldn’t find Luke or Mara. and Ben left her on Jakku where no one would ever find her because a part of him couldn’t kill his cousin.

If we had to have a broken Luke, what would bring him back, is his father. Basically have a Lion King moment with Anakin and Luke. "You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself Luke, you are more than what you have become." would've meant more in my opinion if it were Anakin who reached out to Luke than Yoda.

Luke wants to save Leia. He lifts his X-Wing and heads towards The Supremacy. Boards the ship and confronts Snoke. Luke will reveal his Green Lightsaber and Snoke’s own Black Lightsaber. They fight, while Rey and Kylo fights. Luke defeats Snoke, but Kylo cuts Rey’s hand off. Enraged, Luke knocks Kylo out with a force repulse. So Luke gives Chewie the signal and gets Rey to safety, while Luke heads back to his X-Wing.

On Crait as Finn is about to make his sacrifice, we see Luke’s X-Wing firing and destroying the mini death star.

Luke is actually there with his moment with Leia. He is there in person, not a force projection, he. is. there.

A true fight between Luke and Kylo. Kylo Ren orders every ship to fire on Luke AT-M6’s all firing but to everyone’s surprise, all blasts stop frozen in midair. Luke wipes the salt off his robes and sends the turbolasers right back at the AT-M6s and TIE-Fighters. Brings down the transports and Kylo’s shuttle and the Star Destroyers in orbit. Kylo descends from his crushed shuttle, preparing to kill his uncle. We have a real lightsaber battle between Luke and Kylo. Luke has his green lightsaber. Their blades clash. Their dialogue remains the same, but Luke is there. Luke is toying with Kylo, similar to how Vader toyed with him on Bespin. When Kylo makes his dramatic slut ™ lunge at Luke, but Luke dodges and cuts Kylo’s hand off. And finally Luke gives his “see you around kid” but Luke does not die, he leaves to board his X-Wing

It ends with Rey, Luke and Leia together, brother and sister holding onto Rey’s hand. A father and his daughter and her aunt. “We have everything we need

What they chose to do with Luke instead

Luke is not marketed at all in The Force Awakens and is on a mountain and is only there as a cameo with no lines whatsoever

The Force Awakens established that Luke left a map to be found. It is never brought up. Han said he left to find the Temple to the First Jedi. It is never brought up. Funny how what was established is never brought up in the movie whatsoever

Luke, Han and Leia do not reunite at all.

Luke gives up. Luke Skywalker is a beacon of hope and optimism and love against all odds, and the fact that that was twisted into being depicted as some foolish youth naivety, and that the only way to make him “human” was to retract all that and make him a bitter, jaded man is so fucking disgusting. Even more disgusting is in TLJ novelization had him dreaming of never leaving Tatooine and having him live under the Empire's dominance. He does not even care that his sister’s life and the Resistance she is leading is in danger. Jedi do not give up. You might say that Yoda and Obi-Wan also gave up. But for those two, the Sith took over the galaxy, they had to go into hiding to protect and guide Luke and Leia. Obi-Wan wanted to save Leia and guide Luke. Yoda always wanted to train Leia as a Jedi and bring Anakin back to the light. He was reluctant to train Luke but he still did his duty as a Jedi Master. They did not just give up and wanted to die and they did not betray their characters at all. Luke spends most of Last Jedi on a windswept island, brooding in solemn silence and frozen by indecision. He doesn’t connect with Rey on any meaningful level, doesn’t impart wisdom or knowledge, and never reasserts himself as the powerful Jedi he once was. A brief physical duel against Rey ends with her as the undisputed victor, completely killing his deserved mythos and her potential character arc in one fell swoop. It’s clear in that moment that he has nothing to teach her, and nothing to contribute to the overall narrative. The boundless potential that seemed poised to explode at the end of The Force Awakens fizzles here but never ignites. And without any training at all, Rey defeats Luke Skywalker and Luke acts all cowardly and begs her to leave. He does buy The Resistance time and saves his sister, but it was ultimately pointless. He wasn’t even there and he dies pointlessly. What we got was not Luke Skywalker. Luke Skywalker is hope and optimism. Luke Skywalker is showing that no matter what, compassion, faith and love will always prevail. Luke is the hero that inspired an entire generations to aspire to be better, aspire to be heroes. Luke is what we wanted to see and what we got was not Luke Skywalker. Luke is someone who thought Doctor Aphra was a good person, she proves him wrong but he still had that hope for her. Luke believed that Darth Vader of all people still had good in him and was willing to die and he was able to reach his father. In Battlefront II’s Story, Luke saves Del Meeko because he asked and he offered Del a better life, a choice. Inferno Squad has committed atrocities in the name of the Empire, yet Luke still gave Del Meeko a chance. Canon Luke Skywalker is a kind hearted hero who will never run from a fight or knowingly leave a loved one in danger and will even save his enemy. This is Luke Skywalker. Luke is compassionate, adores his family, would never leave them. The Luke Skywalker I knew would never even think about killing his nephew in his sleep when there is always another way. Luke believes in the light and was willing to die to save his father. Darth Vader committed atrocities for decades, Luke still believed there was good in him. He would never give up on his family nor would he even consider killing his own nephew in his sleep just because he sensed darkness there. He would never abandon his sister at death’s door when she needed him most. The Hero’s Journey that he was following was ignored completely and he just gave up and wanted to die. And he dies instead of reuniting with Leia properly. Mark Hamill wanted Luke to live until Episode IX where he would pass on what he learned to Rey. No big battle with Snoke, no passing on, instead Luke dies and all we’re getting is force ghost Luke. Luke Skywalker was a hero to an entire generation. Luke was the true heart of Star Wars. His was the journey we followed from idealistic farm boy dreaming of adventure, to reluctant warrior, and finally to savior of the entire galaxy. The original trilogy built him up, and The Last Jedi finally broke him down. I for one mourn my hero’s passing.

Luke Skywalker tries to murder his nephew in his sleep and is blamed for Ben Solo’s fall and Kylo Ren. Luke would not even think of trying to kill his nephew in his sleep. He would try to talk to him and try to pull him back to the light. His sister brought Ben there for protection and guidance. Even if that did fail, you did not need to make Luke attempt to murder him. You did not need to make Luke, Leia and Han at fault for Kylo Ren. Kylo is a grown ass man, he is responsible for his own actions. Kylo was going to murder the Jedi and younglings regardless, he already fell to the dark side. No one is responsible for Kylo’s actions but Kylo Ren.

Rey and Luke have no meaningful relationship. There is no teacher and student relationship. Luke teaches her nothing. Rey is already all powerful for.....reasons. He doesn’t even impart any sort of wisdom, guidance or a semblance that they even had a relationship or that he taught her anything. All he was towards Rey was a bitter old man trying to get the girl to leave her lawn. And all of a sudden “we passed on all we know” SINCE FUCKING WHEN??? Rey learned nothing all movie and we are to expect she learns everything off screen. We were deprived of a positive Rey and Luke mentor and student relationship and we were given complete garbage. What we should've gotten was Luke teaching Rey to feel the force, to build her own lightsaber and that attachments can lead you to the dark side if you let them, but they won't lead you to darkness if you control your emotions. A battle between Rey and Luke against Kylo and the Knights Of Ren. Rey abducted and Luke has to lift his X-Wing and board the Supremacy to save Rey. Luke fighting Snoke and Rey against Kylo. Rey loses her fight and loses a hand. Luke stops Snoke and takes Rey to escape. Luke blasts away the battering laser. Fights Kylo on Crait with his green lightsaber. Escapes and reunites with Leia and Rey. Instead we are given nothing.

Luke doesn’t grieve for Han. Han Solo is Luke’s best friend. They have been together for decades. We are not allowed to see Luke react to Han’s death or Luke to grieve that his best friend is dead. Han was a big influence and friend it was dismissed as if he barely knew him. To quote Mark Hamill on the matter “They had time for me to milk that big alien but to show any human emotion? Nah"

Luke’s last moment with Leia is ultimately pointless. He was there as a projection. His last moment with Leia was made meaningless. He wasn't even there. It was a great moment with Mark and Carrie, but it was ultimately a giant fuck you to everyone who loved Luke and Leia and wanted to see them reunite.

Luke’s confrontation with Kylo is ultimately meaningless. We are not allowed to see Luke Skywalker as a powerful Jedi Master. He does not wield his Green Lightsaber, he does not bring down all the AT-ATs, the transports, shuttles or bring down the star destroyers in orbit. He’s not even there thus making the confrontation with Kylo ultimately pointless. He toys with Kylo, but we don’t see a lightsaber fight between them.

Luke is only coming back as a force ghost and from the sound of it, it will only be a cameo.

Mark Hamill was ultimately disgusted with the direction they took with Luke. He is heartbroken that he never got to reunite with his friends and that Carrie is no longer with us. He now wishes that he’s done with Star Wars. He went from being excited to returning to the role that made his career and the character that he loves so much to being broken and apathetic. Crying on set and just being absolutely miserable throughout the whole affair. Mark did not return to play Luke Skywalker, he returned to play Jake Soywalker. It’s like Mark said “should’ve left well enough alone” Should’ve left the original trilogy alone and made your own story, but no, you had to break down Han, Luke and Leia to pointlessly build up these new characters. Mark Hamill and Luke Skywalker deserved better

Mark tried to warn us

youtube

#Luke Skywalker #Anti Lucasfilm #Anti JJ Abrams #Anti Rian Johnson #Anti TFA #Anti TLJ

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s-softersoftest · 6 years

Note

I just need to know where this goes: "You seem … lost. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Prompt 10-

It is not cowardice that stalls him.

Lack of alcohol, perhaps.

Awareness of bad history.

Sudden and overwhelming emotional discomfort.

Certainly not cowardice, Olaf thinks, the words bitter in his mouth as if he had spoken.

He stands in the darkened main hall of VFD’s headquarters watching whirls of snow drift beyond the grand windows. Meanwhile, at his back, a masquerade commences, one that he has not yet had the fortitude to join.

Years ago, he thinks, safely cocooned in his armor of impudence and casual cruelty, Olaf could have sauntered into the ballroom without a backwards glance, sneering as if he loathed the whole thing, and spent his evening camped at the bar- full of gossip and snark and the kind of masculine bravado that made women want to kneel.

Even now, standing in the shadowy dark, listening to the grandiose swinging of their music, he could imagine stepping into that identity like a well-worn and beloved pair of dancing shoes, a performance, a spectacle, and-

entirely wrong.

Penniless despite his villainous plots, his shame only slightly outmatching his bitterness, (his Troupe gone, his home derelict, his whole life as appealing as a slowly sinking ship-) he had come seeking advice from the one man who had annoyed him for decades with the promise of immediate redemption.

“I want what’s best for those I respect and admire. That includes you, Olaf.” Jacques had said, already offering his hand. “You’ve got a keen mind and a flair for the dramatic. If you reinvestigate your ethical priorities, you could help repair the world instead of filling it with smoke.”

Salvation, before, had seemed too clean. Too merciful.

Jacques Snicket shook his hand despite the blood between them.

After months of suspicion and training and intense paranoia from every volunteer he could imagine (except, he remembers, Jacques and Beatrice-) Olaf had slowly gained enough rapport to be invited to the masquerade. Dressing, travelling, arriving, he could do. It was being seen alone, crippled, reduced, that made him hesitant, haunting the front hall like a spectre in the low light.

Olaf glances to the glowing ballroom where volunteers stand drinking and chatting or twirling together on the dance floor, too far away to guess at identity. He straightens his silken bowtie, examines his shiny shoes against the ornate tile floor frosted with moonlight.

Cowardice, he thinks again, utterly disgusted with himself.

Light footsteps interrupt his brooding.

“Oh! Hi…”

A young woman stands across the front hall, having just returned from one of the headquarters’ many balconies, her long, wavy hair still flecked with snow.

She wears a pale linen dress, ruffled at the low-cut bodice, the neckline dipping beneath her collarbone and swinging wide off her shoulders. The sleeves hang belled at her wrists, tied at the ends with thin, black ribbon. The hem is cut raggedly at her knees as if she had shorn it herself, the blade dull and rusty.

She is, almost certainly, Olaf thinks, one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen.

There is a small moment, quick as a heartbeat’s span, where they examine one another, eyes roaming and raving and meeting.

“Um-” The young woman says, hurrying on small, pale flats to his side. Up close he finds her even more divine- all long eyelashes, full lips, and a flush to her cheeks that only good wine brings.

By the time Olaf finally looks into her eyes he finds them rapt and concerned.

“You seem… lost.” She says, voice sweet as it is decimating. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I’m not lost.” Olaf says, tearing his eyes away from her to glance to the ballroom. “I’m buying time.”

“Buying time, huh.” She repeats, sounding doubtful. He sees her eyes linger on his hands, clasped and empty. “Don’t you have a mask?”

Olaf does not even bother to check. “No. Don’t you?”

The young woman frowns, patting along the curves of her hips as if she is used to having several pockets at once. “Ah. No. Must’ve forgotten it in the taxi.”

“Forgetful, are you?” He mutters, teasing, testing.

“No,” The young woman insists. “I’m as forgetful as I am sneaky. Which, in this case, means only in the most important of circumstances.”

“Ah. So you forgot your mask on purpose.” He examines her closely, watches her expression go neutral, attempting a veiled facial disguise.

“What makes you think that?” She asks, too sweetly.

“You’re outrunning someone.” Olaf decides. Then, just to watch her squirm, “A boy?”

She holds onto neutrality for a moment more before the expression falls away with a laugh. Conceding, she says, “Alright. Fine. Yes. But two boys, actually. The Quagmires won’t leave me alone.”

“Ah, the perils of pretty young women,” Olaf laments, “Always doomed to be pestered by anyone easily charmed.”

He flicks his fingers lazily, glances her over without trying to hide it. Then, “Take it as a compliment, my dear. Their eyes seem to be in working order.”

“Ah, you’d think.” She says with a shrug. “I am flattered. I just don’t care.”

“How harsh.” Olaf teases. “You’ll tear their hearts to shreds.”

She shrugs again, flips her hair wide over her shoulder, exposing the long slope of her throat, pale as a candlestick. “If a purposefully forgotten mask buys me some time while they try to find me, it’ll be worth it.”

“Well there’s your supposed forgetfulness. What about your sneaking?”

“Oh. That.” She mutters, glancing towards the ballroom as if afraid someone might overhear. “It won’t be necessary here. I use that particular talent at home most often.”

She casts him a peculiar glance, studying him as if expecting epiphany or rebuke.

He opens his mouth to reply, something cloying and questioning, but she beats him to it, holding out her hand in introduction.

“Violet Baudelaire.” She says, casting him a dazzling grin. He takes her hand, soft and warm as a peach, and even that small brush of contact has Olaf’s stomach dropping like a schoolboy’s, as if his composure had fallen out from under him like a splintered trapdoor. “I’ve been listening in on all the talks you’ve had with my mom and Jacques. And I’m not telling you how, so don’t ask. But I’m very excited for you to finally return to VFD. You seem very genuine.”

“Baudelaire. Of course.” Olaf says, “You’re a little eavesdropper, hmm?”

He watches a blush swamp her cheeks and thinks, like any growing addiction, that he could get used to seeing it.

She offers him another smile, a hint of wickedness in it. “Yes. I had to know why a strange, handsome man was suddenly arriving at our house.”

Olaf, surprised more than he’d admit, nods slowly. When he tries to meet her eyes, he finds Violet staring towards the ballroom, an odd, pinched look to her face, as if she had tried and failed to keep from embarrassing herself.

“Handsome.” He says, smug and low. “Violet, do you realize that in the short span of our conversation, you’ve described yourself as forgetful, sneaky, and utterly uninterested in two boys your own age?”

“Playing my hand too forcefully, huh?” She says, meeting his eyes with a calculative look. “Pardon my tactlessness. I’ve been watching you leave our house for months and not saying a single word to you as per my dear mother’s request. I had hoped to charm you into a dance. In-”

“You were looking for me.” Olaf realizes suddenly, as sure as any truth he’s spoken. “Up on that balcony.”

Violet doesn’t deny it, merely continues, “Indulge a young woman in her silly crush, Olaf. Help me avoid the Quagmire boys. Dance with me.”

Attraction, that wild ache, makes his heart race. Olaf, playing at uninterested, says, “And disgrace my good name by arriving to the masquerade with a lovely young Baudelaire on my arm? They’ll crucify me.”

Violet examines him, a slow grin uncurling on her delicate face. It is at this moment he realizes how intuitive and effortlessly smart she must be.

“You’re tempted.” She accuses, holding out her hand, an eager invitation.

“I’m more than tempted, Violet.” He says, offering his elbow. “Your little scheme is a success.”

“I’m a master at purposeful forgetfulness now.” She says with a laugh, threading their arms, her palm hot on the crook of his elbow even through his sleeve. “Master at sneaking. At scheming, too.”

“Congratulations.” He says, sarcastic and already affectionate. “I’ll reward you with a dance.”

“Oh, only one?” Violet pouts, dragging him towards every person he’s ever done wrong.

“Don’t push it, Baudelaire.” He says, knowing he will bend to her wishes, will dance with her until his feet ache, will return to VFD entranced and consumed and heartswollen, his whole being engulfed in whimsical allure for Violet Baudelaire- if only for a night, hesitation and morality and cowardice be damned.

#eternallost #thank you #hope ya like it #Violet: best at sneaking 10/10 confirmed in everything i write #i love writing violet as a happy snarky teenage girl #where she hasn't been fucked by grief and vfd #it makes my heart happy #asoue #violet baudelaire #count olaf

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we-are-knight · 6 years

Note

Stealthy killer

Ed-ony Darkness Dementia Raven Whay, known by the official Assassin title of “The Black Earwig”, and occasionally “The Constipated Sparrow”, a feared and deadly assassin among all assassin circles (which were less social groups and more mass-stabbing events), crept stealthily along the rooftop toward the window.

He was dressed head to toe in dark muffling clothes, like the edgiest of edgelords, somehow using the black clothing to not stand out against the glare of light from the streets below should anyone by any chance look up at the night sky, and also made not a sound because as we all know, assassins make no sound, ever, not even when flatulent. Silent but deadly indeed.

This was hampered somewhat by the lord of edges (for he was a master of the art of the killing dagger, and also of brooding looks) wearing chain armour that was hidden under his clothing. But being an assassin, of course, the chains magically made nary a sound as he crept, stealthily, along, with great stealth. Assassins were all masters of stealth, by the way.

As the stealthy assassin crept toward the window, he took time in his brooding to reflect upon the contract. naturally, it had happened on his own terms, in a dark room somewhere, with a serious nature of true dark seriousness. Occasionally, he took contracts from weak hearted cowards. The client this time had been a vampire (The EDGIEST of all clients) that wanted a political enemy killed so that he could marry his one true love, for he was secretly a misunderstood and brooding fellow creature of darkness that was oppressed by the light of the church and paladins who were the TRUE VILLAINS.

Enodby skulked through the window (it’s like slinking, but with more wrist action to truly stimulate the jerking off motion of the writer’s ego) and landed STEALTHILY on thee roof beam. There was a window that led straight to the paladin’s chamber, but this was the more dramatic entrance, and you could tell he was a professional for using a roof beam rather than the more obvious (and clearly trapped or locked) window next to the bed.

Tipping his fedora to ward off any FUNDIE divine warnings or defences of the consecrated room, Ebony made the sign of Asmodeus (the EDGIEST of dark Lords!) to imbue his blade with the power to slay his target. He did not actually worship Asmodeus of course, because that would imply he actually put stock in things like Gods. Who would believe in the Gods anyway? In a world where their powers were present in Clerics and Paladins, Oracles, and demi-gods regularly rose to true power, and elves remembered the rise of deities. He huffed. Such fools. They did not appreciate that only nihilism and entropy were the TRUE gods of the world!

Silently, he jumped down and landed without a sound somehow, despite having fallen like 20 ft, also taking no damage because that would look totally uncool.He relished the act of the murder about to take place. He had refused actual payment for the chance to kill a paladin. So, when payment had been transferred, he took the job immediately, using the money he had accepted instantly to purchase a new stiletto dagger for the express task of slipping it through the armour of the sleeping naked paladin! Truly a devious and most well thought out plan!

With a silent cackle of evil laughter, Ednoby slipped the blade into the paladin’s chest. He died instantly, but somehow had time to open his eyes in fear and agony, his blood soaking through the sheets, and not ruining the assassins nice black robes because that’s a bitch to wash out.Edbony withdrew the blade, wiping it off, without any spray of blood (because blood works like that okay?) and, his task completed, skulked out of the dark room into the dark of the dark night and black sky. Truly, he was one with the dark.

His Master would be pleased with this. Yet another successful assassination by the Dark Lord of Murder and Author-Self-Inserts. None could stop the blade in the night. And his 2 billionth kill to date! This called for a special celebration. Perhaps some blood wine (for he was also a vampire, of course, and a tiefling and half-orc) ?

He vanished into the shadows, mysterious and edgy, to return to his cave/attic/temple/lair and relax after a job well done.

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senseandaccountability · 7 years

Text

The Stolen Throne in 15 minutes

I wrote this parody back in 2010 and it would be a shame if Livejournal dies with this mocking post, so have a re-post here on tumblr. I actually love Stolen Throne, but it’s not going to win a Nobel prize, that’s for damn sure. REBEL QUEEN: *is slain *

MARIC, a Level 1 Prince: OH NOES! I can barely hold a sword and now I'm all alone on the run from the usurper! HELP! HELP!

LOGHAIN, a Level 56 Warrior, several miles away: I have a really bad feeling about this shit.

MARIC: HELP! HELP! *cracks the skull of random attacker * HELP! HELP!

LOGHAIN: Oh for fuck's sake. Come along, then.

LOGHAIN’S DAD: Like all good leaders of men in the DAO canon, I am somewhat reluctant to lead. Yet I do. I’m also quite classy if I may say so myself.

MARIC: Agreed! I dub thee, ser Loghain's Dad to a knight in my service. Now, go off and die protecting me!

LOGHAIN: What the hell?

LOGHAIN’S DAD: Son, in a very foreshadowing moment I will now ask you to put your emotions and personal desires aside and do as you must. Sure, it will seem really fucking grim but so will the rest of your life. Now off you go and protect the Prince with your life.

LOGHAIN’S DAD and EVERYONE IN CAMP: *dies protecting the Rebel Prince* --

MARIC: *suffers prettily*

LOGHAIN: I hate you so very much.

MARIC: Naaah. 　

ENEMIES: *Attack!*

MARIC: Oh noes! *falls off horse/gets stabbed/is unconscious*

LOGHAIN: Okay, I can’t really hate you. It’s like hating a puppy.

MARIC: Told ya!

WITCH OF THE WILDS: Come boys, come...give me your semen. I mean, let me babble inexplicably off-screen about secret visions of mine...

MARIC: Oh, sure!

PLOT: *thickens *

LOGHAIN and READERS: Whatever. 　　

-- ROWAN: *dramatic entrance*

MARIC: Oh look, it’s my future Queen.

LOGHAIN: Oh look, she can actually hold her own in a fight! WELCOME! Don't ever leave!

ROWAN: I'm the Warrior Maiden of this story. But don't worry, fangirls, I won't stand in the way of slash, plot or have much of a personality. I rejoice in seeing you alive, Maric. It would be pointless to rebel without a prince after all. And you’re cute when you fall off horses.

MARIC: Did you say something? I can’t seem to focus on non-elven women.

LOGHAIN: Oh, Maker, warrior women are so sexy. I like my women like I like my coffee,with a spoon in them hot and strong.

ROWAN: Sorry, did you say something? I can’t seem to focus on commoners.

ROMANTIC DRAMA: *is obvious * -- 　　

ORLESIANS: *are Evil and Depraved even in their own POV-chapters*

LOGHAIN: See, this is what I keep saying! --

MARIC: *is endlessly fascinated with Loghain*

LOGHAIN: *teaches Maric how to use a sword*

MARIC: You make me a man!

LOGHAIN: You make me speak in semi-long sentences and open up my glum heart!

MARIC: I fanboy you so hard, there is nothing you cannot do! Here, have a pair of too tight leather trousers, for eh, plot purposes.

LOGHAIN: Who the fuck am I again? Fandom Draco?

MARIC: What? I don't sexualize you! Perish the thought!

ROWAN: I think I'm going to go for a walk. You two... hang out.

DAO FANDOM: Oh, look I wrote this multi-chaptered fic about how Alistair falls in love with my PC R'heaigh-Leihy-inneh Cousland, who is incredibly pretty! And then this long-ass sequel about their lives after the game, isn't that just so clever and romantic? It even has some NSFW bits!

SLASHERS IN EVERY OTHER FANDOM, EVER: OH COME ON! 　

-- ROWAN & LOGHAIN: *builds a small mountain of unresolved and badly written sexual tension*

KATRIEL: Hello. I am the Plot Device of this little story.

MARIC: OH MY GOD, AN ELF! *fans self *

KATRIEL: Indeed.

MARIC: Look, guys, there was an elf in my tent! She’s very pretty!

ROWAN: Yes, yes. Sooo, Loghain, maybe we should... duel. Just a little? Get the blood pumping, the adrenaline rushing… Nothing sexual about it, just to determine who’s the best…fighter?

LOGHAIN: I thought you’d never ask.

ROWAN & LOGHAIN: *fights*

LOGHAIN: *wins* I’m so sorry I hurt you! *angsts* And so incredibly turned on by the fact that you almost beat me.

ROWAN: I know, right. Now, let’s forget about the part where we are clearly perfect for each other because I am Maric’s.

LOGHAIN: Yes, duty first.

MARIC: *shags the elf* 　　

-- MARIC: *shags the elf*

ROWAN: *angsts*

LOGHAIN: *angsts*

ROWAN: I am so stupid and ugly and not an elf.

LOGHAIN: *mutters* I think you are beautiful.

ROWAN: No! Our UST must remain heavy on the U-part! For plot purposes!

LOGHAIN: He’s too stupid to breathe and yet I am the lesser man. Oh, this will define my character in many interesting ways, I’m sure! *storms off *

MARIC: Hey, where are you going?

LOGHAIN: I’m done now. You made it through the woods and it’s been eh,years

MARIC: But how can I make it one day without you? I've been taking self-preservation lessons from Bella Swan! I need a big, strong, dominant man to heal me sexually save me!

ROWAN: For true. I can't bloody take care of his emotional neediness all alone, please stay!

LOGHAIN: *angsts*

ROWAN: *angsts*

MARIC: *emo puppy*

LOGHAIN: Fine, I'll stay.

MARIC: I love you. Here, have a fancy title.

LOGHAIN: *kneels awkwardly* I love you, too. I swear to serve you well.

MARIC, ROWAN, LILITH & DAVID GAIDER: OH ♥LOGHAIN♥! -- 　　

BATTLES: *a plenty *

MARIC: *is dumb*

ORLESIANS: *are evil and well-informed*

ROWAN: Loghain, we must – surprise, surprise – save Maric from a certain death! Someone who I'm sure my future king doesn't sleep with has told the enemies of our plans and we are overwhelmed and Maric will die!

LOGHAIN: I am a bit busy here, being the Commander and all. If we leave them they will die.

ROWAN: Surely you have realised by now that you are the one who will make all the harsh decisions that others can't bear and end up in a turmoil of politics you don’t master and internal fighting you care nothing for? I sure as hell don't want to make this decision, it's awful and I'm one of the Pure and Good Characters. Now, please tell me you will sacrifice my dad!

LOGHAIN: Oh, this will define my character in many interesting ways, I’m sure.

MARIC: *emo puppy* I don't deserve to be saved. If this was a fanfic I'd be crying myself to sleep, listening to music that isn't invented yet.

LOGHAIN: There, there. One of my hidden talents is that I comfort very well.

LILITH: Awww.

MARIC: I second that awww.

ROWAN: Oh, me too! Me too! Now do me! I mean, in a non-sexy friendly kind of way.

LOGHAIN: Of course. Duty first.

MARIC: *shags the elf * 　　　 --

DEEP ROADS: *are cool*

KATRIEL: *knows a lot*

MARIC: *is not suspicious at all *

ROWAN & LOGHAIN: *headdesk*　

MARIC: Oh, and I love the not-at-all-suspicious elf, by the way.

ROWAN: Bastard.

LOGHAIN: What the hell? I've angsted over your future queen for well over hundred pages of Gaider-prose and you don't even love her. I will kill you in your sleep.

MARIC: *puppy eyes *

LOGHAIN: Fuck you. 　 --

ROWAN: *angsts*

LOGHAIN: Did I eh…mention that I comfort very well? Cause I do.

ROWAN: Comfort me! With hot, brooding sex! With gingerly sexings accompanied by our mutual tears, because we do cry an awful lot, all three of us.

LOGHAIN: I'm not the object of our mutual desire Maric.

ROWAN: Can you pretend? And glad I am to hear it!

LOGHAIN: Only if you do, too. Really?

ROWAN: Damn straight. Eh. Pun intended. Really, really.

DEEP ROADS: We bring the sexytimes like nothing else in the DAO canon! 　 -- 　

MARIC: Oh noes! Betrayal! It hurts! I love her so! She is so completely without a personality save being pretty and shady and into me! My dream girl!

LOGHAIN: Much like the PC can choose to do in the game version of our future, I am now picking the option to harden you. Everyone’s out for themselves. There you go. Harden up, bitch.

MARIC: But I’m such a gentle flower! Girls dig that.

LOGHAIN: Yes, indeed. I dig that, too, and this breaks my fucking heart. But life’s a bitch and then your mother gets raped and killed by Orlesians while you are forced to watch and you must give up the woman you love for duty and Ferelden and FOR FUCK’S SAKE, MAN, JUST GROW A SPINE SO WE CAN GET THIS SHIT DONE!

MARIC: *grows an insta-spine*

KATRIEL: Oh, crap.

MARIC: This moment defines me. *stabs her to death*

LOGHAIN: This moment defines me. *turns off emotions *

KATRIEL: I think I was informed of this plot because I wrote a really obvious good-bye letter, but whatever. I still die prettily and redeem myself in doing so while also making Loghain look extra cruel. A little something for everyone! 　

ROWAN: We are, as always, the harsh pragmatists of this story. Or well, you are a harsh pragmatist while I may or may not act out of jealousy which really doesn't put me in a better light. Regardless, my heartless yet loving soulmate, why must it hurt so?

LOGHAIN: Because life’s a bitch and then-

ROWAN: Shut up!

LOGHAIN: *dark, brooding emo puppy*

ROWAN: You are the only one who can be allowed to see me weak. Which is quite touching.

LOGHAIN: It is. I see you as my equal, which also is hot and something that ought to be more present in fanfiction. Alas, for now I shall break up with you!

ROWAN: Look, the hardening quest is fun for like, five minutes, but for the rest of my life? COME ON! Why do I get to be Maric's consolation prize?

LOGHAIN: Well, life’s a bitch and-

ROWAN: DAMN YOU.

LOGHAIN: I AM DAMNING MYSELF AS WE SPEAK! JUST BLOODY PLAY ORIGINS AND YOU WILL SEE!

DRAMATIC BREAK-UP: *is dramatic*

ROWAN: *cries*

LOGHAIN: *cries*

MARIC, in a different room: *cries*

ORLESIANS: And these people will overthrow our brutal occupation? I think not. --

MARIC: I NEED A HUG!

ROWAN: I will hug you. I will also assume the role of your loving, forgiving and much-stronger queen. Such is my duty.

MARIC: Sexy.

ROWAN: Not particularly. Sexy just broke up with me.

MARIC: I killed sexy. I NEED A HUG!

ROWAN: This will get old very quickly. --

MARIC: I am hardened. It sucks. I suddenly have a spine, and I do things to further our goal.

LOGAIN: I am as surprised as the readers. And a bit guiltily conflicted about it but that's just going to be my personality from now on. So roll with it.

ROWAN: I am stuck with the elf-fetishist for the rest of my life, but hey, why mind me? I never had much of a personality to begin with and won't get a fanbase anyway.

PLOT: *is wearing a bit thin* Come on, get this book over with! --

LOGHAIN: I am very sexy as I lead my rebels in battle.

ROWAN: He is. The bastard.

MARIC: He surely is. And – wait for it - I seem to have found a few survival skills!

LOGHAIN & ROWAN: Praise the Maker! --

WAR:* is won in the epilogue*

ROWAN: *is dead in the epilogue *

LOGHAIN: *is miserable in the epilogue *

MARIC: *is a miserable king in the epilogue*

READERS: Wow, what a fun ride that was.

#dragon age the stolen throne #Loghain Mac Tir #king maric #rowan theirin

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star-across-the-universe · 6 years

Text

SILVER and SCARS

The moon shone down on the rooftops, painting the night with a perfect soft, diffuse glow, like the steady hand of a master painter. A passing cloud parted the veil over its bright face, casting a shaft of silver light down dramatically toward a lone figure, his face mysteriously obscured in shadows. He stood with one foot up on the low parapet of a building, the edge of his cloak sweeping behind him as if it were alive, tossed about in the chill breeze.

He stared out over the city. His thoughts were his own tonight, mysterious and as dark as night shadows on velvet, or some other really dark thing...

So loud were his brooding thoughts ringing in his ears that he nearly missed the sound of a footstep on the rooftop behind him.

“So, you have found me at last, my rival,” he murmured in a low and silken voice. “I knew this day would come.”

“You knew you couldn’t hide from my eyes forever, you mean,” the deep, rich rumbling of a completely different voice was carried toward him on the wind. “Also, it’s technically night time.”

“Confound you, Scarr Fightsmore,” the tall, cloaked figure whirled around, revealing his elegant porcelain features in the pale moonlight, his fashionable fluffy hair dancing in the wind like white flames. “Yes, all right, it’s night time - but the moon’s bright gleam warms me as if it were day.” He said. “Tell me, why do you hound me, after all these years?”

“Because,” said the voice as its owner stepped fully into a beam of glistening luminance, “I will never forgive you for your betrayal, my greatest enemy, and once, my greatest friend - Magnus Darkbright, the Silver Sorcerer!”

The broad, hulking, yet sensual figure of Scarr Fightsmore was lit gently, his sinuous, corded frame caressed by the soft glow from above. His long, night-dark hair was also billowing in the wind, hanging mysteriously across his face but occasionally pulled aside to reveal a terrible yet intriguing scar running down his forehead, over one eye, and down his face. There was also another scar running perpendicular to the first one, across his face.

“My betrayal?” The silver-haired mage - who looked far younger than the color of his hair would indicate, except inside his eyes, which looked very old indeed - exclaimed in outrage. “You lie! It was you who abandoned me, when you -”

“I will hear no more of your trickery - now DIE!” the very muscular fighter shouted in a sensual growl. Scarr had always been the impulsive, yet quiet type, even before he got the scars. His parents must have been very prescient. He pulled a sword from over his shoulder, though Magnus couldn't see where it had come from.

The silver sorcerer - who was actually a wizard, technically - gasped. “That sword... It's not a sword!”

“How right you are, my former friend,” he roared throatily as he ran towards Magnus, his dark hair trailing behind him as if it were in water. “It is 100 swords! Every sword of everyone I have defeated in sword-combat, forged into a sword!”

“That is unreasonable!” shouted Magnus, as he summoned his arcane prowess and his eyes began to glow with a mystical light. White flames danced across his fingertips, just like his white hair danced in the wind. It was very fashionable. “You can't just weld more swords to your sword every time you defeat someone - it goes against every principle of metallurgy!”

“And yet, I will not rest until I have buried it to the hilt, deep inside your flesh!” the fighting man yelled in response as he finally reached Magnus.

The wizard dodged out of the way, but only barely, and the sword looked like a wall made of swords as it passed by his face. A single lock of his beautiful silvery hair drifted slowly to the ground like a leaf, made of silk. It had been cut off by the blade, which was apparently sharper than you'd expect from a sword made of a bunch of swords stuck together.

Scarr Fightsmore was very strong, and also very fast despite being so huge and muscular - but The Silver Sorcerer did know him very well indeed, and could predict his moves. He was a wizard after all.

Which was good, because Scarr whirled around, like a shadow passing over the moon, and swung the sword of blades at Magnus again. The wizard vanished like smoke, reappearing thirty-five feet away but still on the rooftop. “Scarr Fightsmore, you give me no choice but to set you on fire,” He warned dangerously, his words like a whisper but louder.

The fighter roared at him again, a sound like the scrape of steel against steel, only deeper, and ran towards him like a charging bull, except with a sword instead of horns. Magnus chanted secret, unspoken words of power, letting the mystical energy swirl around him until it reached a climax, and then shot out at the other man in a gout of burning white flames.

Scarr kept coming toward him, exploding through the white hot heat. “You fool!” he said while smiling and also on fire, “I have been setting myself on fire every day just to practice fighting you, and now I am immune to fire!”

“You can’t become immune to fire,” Magnus frowned. “Fire doesn’t become less hot the more times you are set on fire. It doesn’t work that way!” Only just then he realized that Scarr was still running towards him as he was talking, just as he was suddenly slammed into by a great big hunk of beef and unresolved issues.

“Ahah! It’s called nerve damage!” said the fighter triumphantly.

Magnus said nothing, because he was too busy flying through the air, which was normal for him, except only without magic this time, which was not normal. His flight was suddenly brought to a stop by a brick wall, which was conveniently on the roof, where the roof entrance was.

“Ugh!” said Magnus. His head was ringing like a hundred bells would, if you threw them at a brick wall. He looked up and saw Scarr walking towards him slowly in the bright moonlight, which was good because it gave him time to think. If he could just get close enough to the fighter without getting his head chopped off...

He lay on the floor and moaned, gripping his head between his hands - he pretended to be hurt, which wasn’t hard, because getting thrown into a wall really hurt actually.

“Now, finally I will have my revenge for your betrayal, Magnus Darkbright, when you left me to die all by myself!” said Scarr, as he walked up to the wizard and pointed the sword of many blades at his throat.

“I already TOLD you,” Magnus said, his sticky-uppy hair falling over his eyes fashionably. “You betrayed ME!” He grabbed ahold of the sword and channelled his magics, charging his hands with lightning, which ran up the blade with great huge sparks and into Scarr’s big hands and muscled arms. The fighter was exploded backward, in a different direction than the sword, which flew through the air and stuck into the rooftop. He staggered up against the brick wall, which was conveniently behind him.

Magnus walked towards Scarr slowly, his hands still sparking with lightning like a distant thunderstorm, only in his fingers instead. Scarr leaned back against the wall as Magnus came up to him and leaned towards him with the lightning, which was casting dark shadows and bright light on his face, just like his name. Magnus put one hand on the wall over Scarr’s shoulder so he couldn’t leave, which he could do because Magnus was also very tall, even if he didn’t have muscles.

“You left ME to die all alone, because you never showed up and I had to fight a whole army of evil undead by myself!” Magnus had tears in his eyes, but it didn’t count as crying, because they caught fire before they rolled down his face. His cloak billowed in the wind.

“No, you left ME to fight an army of evil undead by MYself,” Scarr said, sticking his lower lip out in a way that was both sad and angry. “What kind of a friend is that?” His silky black hair also fluttered in the wind.

“Wait,” said Magnus, thinking. His tears dried really quick, because they were on fire. “Did you go to the east gate, or the west gate?”

Scarr frowned, his scars illuminated starkly in the moonlight. “The west gate, of course, like you said!”

Magnus also frowned. “What? No, I told you to go to the east gate. East, with an E.”

“But west also has an E in it,” Scarr said, thoughtfully. “Does that mean...” He looked at Magnus, his eyes gleaming in the soft moonlight shining down on the both of them, his face shadowed hauntingly, like his tragic past.

“We were both just in the wrong place,” Magnus breathed out the words, which escaped into the night air like the sadness leaving his body. “So then did you really come to help me?”

“I would never leave you alone,” said Scarr, “because you’re my friend.”

He looked deeply into Magnus’ eyes, and Magnus looked into his, like a mirror. The wizard leaned in more, putting his other hand on the wall on the other side of Scarr’s head, only he forgot to get rid of the lightning, which shot into the brick wall. But neither of them cared as sparks exploded around them, because finally they knew that they had truly found -

“Ah, Everine, there you are!” a cheerful voice cut in brightly. “Hard at work on that essay on somatic components I assigned you, right?”

The young elven girl’s eyes flew open and she slammed the notebook shut abruptly with the pen still inside it. She was thankful that someone her age probably couldn’t get a heart attack.

“Hahhaaahhh, you know it, Master Pipeleaf,” She grinned and pointed both index fingers at him, laughing through clenched teeth. She carefully slid the notebook aside and leaned an elbow on it protectively.

Her mother smiled breezily, having escorted her erstwhile tutor in. “Thank you again for coming by, Cleric Pipeleaf, it’s so hard to find a good spell tutor these days, especially within the church, what with all the troubles in the world lately.“

Davin waved it off with a smile. “Not at all, ma’am. Young Everine is a very bright pupil. She’ll be quite the asset to the mage guild someday soon I’m sure, particularly with her talent in divinations. I’d hate to see that wasted.”

“Yes, such a colorful imagination!” Her mother laughed and gave Everine’s hair a tousle, at which her daughter wrinkled her freckled brown nose and readjusted her bright yellow hair bow. “Well, you two just let me know if you need anything, I’m sure Everine is eager to get to her studies.”

The elf girl gave them her brightest, widest, and most innocent rictus.

#oh dear god what have i done #silver and scars #meta fanfiction #terrible on purpose #this is the worst thing i've ever written

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taintedkibou · 7 years

Text

Couldn’t Endure - part one

There were risks when entering the cognitive world.

Skull reacted without thinking, his gut instinct telling him it was the right thing to do. The pain only lasted for several seconds, and he grinned at Joker’s wide-eyed expression. “It’s worth the look on your face. You always being nonchalant pisses me… off…” His eyes fluttered shut behind his mask. Joker held Skull’s limp body upright, mindful of the gashes practically splitting open his back. Oracle screamed at them, but everyone clearly saw that Skull was down. Joker sank to the ground, Skull situated carefully across his lap, and softly asked Oracle for the stats on their current enemy. She provided them, along with an attack boost. With one hand, he ripped off his current mask and replaced it with another.

Byakko was the best accident the twins could have given him. It was the exact opposite of the barbed-tailed Cerberus that smirked at the damage it had caused. He wasn’t strong enough to create certain high level Personas, but the gruesome sacrifices allowed him to bypass that penalty. The striped beast at Joker’s side whined softly at the emotions its master harbored, the sound growing into a growl after locking eyes with the enemy Shadow. Joker’s grip on Skull’s lifeless body tightened as enormous ice spikes riddled Cerberus.

Bufudyne took half of Cerberus’s life force, sending the Shadow to the ground. Joker eased Skull carefully from his lap with a whispered promise, “I’ll be right back.” He stood, flipping the long tail of his coat back into place, and approached the whimpering Shadow. Queen’s fists were clenched tight at her sides as she joined him. Fox had both hands wrapped tightly around the handle of his katana. “Hold up!” Cerberus pleaded. Joker froze, cocking his head to one side, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Do you intend to bargain for your life?” he chuckled. “Joker,” Fox urged. “We don’t have time for this. Skull needs Mona to heal him and we can’t take that chance with Shadows roaming free.” Joker turned to smile at Fox and Yusuke felt a chill, colder than his own ice attacks, run down his spine. “Right,” he sighed. Joker faced the cowering demon once again and held out his free gloved hand. “Give me an item. Please,” he added as an afterthought. The groveling Shadow produced a Skill card. Joker laughed as he accepted it. Megaton Raid. It was the same attack that had taken out Skull. He pocketed it with a chipper “thank you” before swiftly swinging out with the hand holding his dagger. Queen and Fox stepped forward after first blood was drawn. It was a battle royale, the Phantom Thieves emerging victorious. xxx

Skull released a strangled gasp, trying to fill his lungs with more air. His mask fell from where it was nestled in his hair after flailing himself into seated position. Big mistake. Skull screamed, twisting his body to escape the pain. Gloved hands cupped his face, red at the edge of his tear-blurred vision, a voice whispering for him to stay still.

“Aki… Joker? Joker… Somebody took a cleaver to my back. Effin’ hurts!” “The fact that you can feel the pain is a blessing,” a faraway voice stated. Queen. “And you’re not far off about what happened to your back.” Feel. “I… died.” Ryuji reached up, covering Joker’s hands with his own. He could feel them trembling against his face, or maybe those were his own hands. “Somehow, I knew you wouldn’t survive.” “So you decided to die instead?!” Ryuji grinned at Ann’s voice. “It’s not funny, Ryuji! Everyone was scared. Futaba-chan might kick your ass when you make it back to the entrance.” Ryuji blinked away his tears, finally opening his eyes to view the world he’d left behind. It was dark and distorted, which meant they were still in the depths of Mementos and not at a Rest Area. Akira’s worried face took up the rest of his vision, the brunet’s eyes swollen and red-rimmed. “Did you cry for me?” Ryuji joked. “I didn’t cry,” Akira scoffed. “He didn’t,” Yusuke confirmed. “If we hadn’t stopped him, he might have carved the Shadow’s heart from its chest to present it to you.” “You paint such vivid pictures,” Makoto sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. She closed her eyes, recalling easily the moment they’d all taken their revenge on the beast. “It’s true, though.” “I had to wash the blood off before you opened your eyes. Kind of a difficult task without running water, so I probably scrubbed too hard,” Akira hummed, the worry bleeding away to a carefree expression. Ryuji rolled his eyes, wincing when even that brought him pain. “Who brought me back?” “Me.” Mona stepped forward. The arrogant attitude was missing from his response, which let Ryuji know he really had scared everyone. Their token mascot character sighed, idly plucking an invisible piece of dust from his outfit. “Oracle reminded me of a Skill I learned, so we tested it out on you.” “Tested it,” Ryuji repeated, his expression as deadpan as his voice. “No one’s ever died before,” Ann reminded them, her voice even softer than Mona’s. “Guys. I’m sorry, okay? I just… I didn’t think…” Ryuji could hear a dozen voices, all overlapping, but they all taunted with the same response: you never do. Feelings of inadequacy started slowly surfacing, but it wouldn’t make sense to lash out in anger, especially considering the situation he’d already landed himself in. Akira’s hands tightening against his cheeks was the only warning Ryuji received before their fearless leader smashed their foreheads together. Everyone watched on in surprise and shock. Ryuji howled, “What the hell, man!” “Be glad Mona’s Recarm skill worked, otherwise I would’ve shoved a revival bead up your ass.” Yusuke’s eyes widened, his face alight in wonder. “They’re suppositories! I always wondered how they worked.” Situation diffused. Makoto slapped a hand over her face, bringing her fingers in to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Ryuji,” the older teen sighed. “Are you good to continue? We can all heal you, but you need to tell us how you feel.” Ryuji leaned forward–Akira mirrored his actions and leaned backwards to make room. His back protested, pain tap dancing across his bones. “Swap me out. I’ll make my way back to the Entrance so Oracle can yell at me.” Ann finally smiled. “Be prepared.” Ryuji grinned wearily and made it back onto his feet with Akira’s assistance. Everyone handed him a beverage that would gradually replenish his health and energy. Mona patted him on his calf, since that’s as far as he could reach. Ann punched him playfully in the stomach–Ryuji hid his pain behind a wobbly grin–before ruffling his hair. Makoto looked worried about hugging him and instead gave him a heartfelt “get well, see you soon”. Yusuke was a little bit more intimate, and cupped the back of Ryuji’s neck with both hands. He pulled him forward, bumping their foreheads in a gentler manner than Akira did. “D-dude,” Ryuji stammered, hands hovering awkwardly in the air. “We’re a team. We’ll accept you, no matter what.”�� Realization of what the other’s words meant dawned on him and Ryuji stiffened in Yusuke’s hold. “…don’t.” “He loves you as well. I witnessed this with my own eyes. When you fell, he was devastated.” “Stop, damn it.” “As you wish, but don’t hide it–not with us.” Yusuke pulled away, giving Ryuji a warm smile as he walked backwards. Ryuji hurriedly pulled his mask back on, ducking his head. Prick that he was, Joker slapped Skull on the back as he sauntered by. Skull hissed, hands reaching for the paining area. “You’re such an asshole, man!” Joker smirked at him before joining the remaining members of the team. They all climbed into the bus Mona transformed into. Skull sighed and tossed back one of the healing drinks. He made a face, but could already feel the effects. “Oracle. People say I’m as dumb as a bag of rocks, but I know you’re there. Did you hear… what Inari…” Skull trailed off, shoulders slumping. The air wavered before him with the sound of static crackling and a holographic version of Futaba appeared. She nodded, averting her gaze. “I already knew, though. Joker… He comes to me to talk about it. Or rather, he comes to brood dramatically.” Skull grinned sheepishly, only to quickly banish any hope of getting a chance with someone so far out of his league. “Walk me out of this dump, yeah?” Oracle smiled and bounded over to him. Even though it wasn’t her physical body, Skull swore he felt the pressure of her touch when she placed a hand to his arm. They started walking and she began excitedly telling him about the design of their current area. Skull half-listened, only because he barely understood the girl and her technical jargon. With the end in sight, those banished thoughts returned when Oracle’s hologram disappeared; the real one waved excitedly with both arms from the train platform. ‘Akira… likes me?’

[part two] [part three] [part four] [part five] [part six]

Notes: Futaba–we’ve seen her walking with them in cutscenes when they move through Palaces, but I just went with the notion that she stays behind on the platforms when they travel Mementos. // Well, I just read a few chapters from the Dengeki and realize she’s with them in Mementos as well. I invoke my artistic license. Also, never had anyone take a hit for Joker yet, so I’m just assuming it’ll be “fatal” for them like it would’ve been for him. // Megaton Raid is weak... I got hit with it. It would never be fatal, but I'm keeping it because it's a cool name.

#persona 5 #p5 #p5 protagonist #akira kusuru #kurusu akira #ryuji #sakamoto ryuji #pre-relationship #akira x ryuji #tw #cw #death #fanfiction #my fiction #fic: couldn't endure

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dianakimcwritetermtwo · 6 years

Text

Journal Expansion

Chapter 1: The Great Escape

I remember as if it was just yesterday. It was a pretty day in Kansas, none like any other. Quite the contrary was the Kansas Nursing home. I moved in from Gladstone a year and a half ago upon the constant request of my daughter. No matter how many times I told her not yet, that I was okay to live alone myself for a while, she told me that it was too dangerous for a very old and wrinkly lady like me with her equally old and oddly obese cat to be living alone in a city. At least thats what I think she meant. The first few months were okay, the caretakers were very nice, and I enjoyed being in other people’s company, but mainly because they didn’t bother me. As long as they were in my presence, and I had my beloved cat Jar (short for Jared), I felt like this actually could’ve worked out. Well, it didn’t. As winter came, spending every single day in the cafeteria, the lounge, or the library just felt like this never ending cycle of routine, which only ends when you, well…die. It seemed so odd to me that I should spend the rest of my life in a building, with limited freedom and access to what people actually enjoy in their times of leisure. Every day for me was precious, and I knew I had to get out.

Jared Twinkle, my beautiful Scottish fold was not an exception when it came to leaving everything behind in Gladstone. He was a present from my late husband, Jared Windsor. It felt only right to name the cat after him. When Jar reached his fourteenth birthday a few weeks back, it came to my sudden realization that if he was an actual human being, he would be around seventy two years old, only a few years younger than I am. It worries me sometimes; It would be so heartbreaking to lose him before I go, I don’t think I will be able to handle the pain of losing another Jared.

I remember it being a Monday when I actually decided to carry out the master plan which I brooded on for quite some time. I was in such a hurry that I took no notice of my caretaker Karen, coming in for my morning checkups. She probably scribbled something stupid on the half broken clipboard of hers (which she will not replace because its ‘been through a lot’), folded my bed and left me a half a glass of vitamin water, because when I came out of the washroom I felt like I was in a different room. I was surprised that she didn’t ask me why I woke up so early in the morning, but to think back about it now, Karen wouldn’t have given the slightest damn about what I was doing, and even today, she couldn’t care less about my whereabouts.

It was a struggle to block the doors from the inside, but I managed to do so by rolling both of my bedside tables in front of the door, and further barricading it by stacking a small stool on top of it. I wasn't there to enjoy the show, (although I think it would have been incredibly easy to get in) because it wasn’t difficult to slip out of the window onto the back lawn of the building. It was so easy that I started to question myself why I didn’t bother doing this earlier. Beforehand, I remembered to grab Jar’s food, my envelope of cash which I have managed to save up for six years, and some extra clothes and toiletries which I then shoved into one small sized luggage. I then had to figure out where my partner in crime would go, and I came to an abrupt conclusion that It would be best for both him and I to get out separately. After managing to slip out, I beckoned to Jar, and being the intelligent cat he is, Jared came right over to the window, and for the first time in a very, very long time, jumped into my hands. It took a few minutes of pulling my chubby Jar out of the window, but once we were both out, It felt as though I was finally released from the shackles of imprisonment. Yes, we would have walks outside and other activities on a daily basis— its not like It was my first time seeing the sun. It just felt, so different this time. Like I was free, free to do anything that I want. However, the brief second of ecstasy quickly faded as I realized what lay ahead of this great escape.

David, the local security guard on patrol, was unusually hectic unlike his past shifts. Usually he would sit at the park bench, munching on a hot dog or any food for that matter. When him and I made eye contact, I was startled to see that he was walking towards me, to perhaps make conversation. He asked me how I was, then started questioning why I came out of a tiny window. I told him that the door was locked from the outside, and Jar and I needed a breath of fresh air. It wasn’t hard to lie, I’ve come up with much worse things before. Being David, it also wasn’t hard for him to believe it. He gave me and Jar one odd look, said good bye, then walked away.

What happened in the ten minutes after this event was by far, one of the most nerve-wracking events I’ve encountered since coming into this two years ago. I had to get out the building, and the only way was through the main gate—and you guessed it, guarded. Why do they have to make us feel like we’re some prisoners in solitary confinement? Half of us are so old and crippled we can’t even go to the washroom by ourselves. The entrance guard was one I’ve never seen before; she was a very pretty, young lady who looked very compassionate. It was my advantage to use that against her, and finally escape. As I walked towards the gate with Jar tracing my steps from behind, I remembered something. My luggage. I did a quick and seemingly unnatural U-turn, and headed towards where I came out of. Jared cried in annoyance behind. If, for some reason, They have found out about my poor attempts at blockading the door and notice my disappearance, this plan would’ve failed, and I would probably have to live out the rest of my life in this place, under heavy supervision. It wasn’t too late to turn back and forget about my luggage, but what about Jar’s food? the clothes? most importantly, where and what am I going to do without the money? I scurried back behind the tree where David last saw me, and there my luggage was. I grabbed it by the handle, attempted to put Jar on top, but quickly gave up as he was too heavy. My legs were tired, and it wasn’t long until I had to sit down onto the grass. I pulled out some snack for Jared to have, and his sweet purr got me get back up, and try one last time.

I walked towards the front gate, now wide open as the delivery man and his truck parked in front. The girl was sitting down in a tiny isolated workplace, and she looked up and watched in confusion as I walked towards her. Out of hurry, I told her that there seemed to be a fire, and that the building inside was filling up with smoke. My over dramatic tone definitely startled her, and for a second or two she just stared in pure shock. I stopped her abruptly as she reached for the phone, telling her that she had no time to waste, and that she must go inside immediately. She ran out of her tiny cubicle-like office, and hurried inside.

After checking that no eyes were on me, I grabbed jar and hurried out towards the gate. With one hand holding a cat and another grabbing onto a luggage, the mailman looked at me in pure shock as we crossed paths outside. It would only be a minute or two before the security guard comes back outside, and I simply had no time to waste. I told the mailman that I was in a hurry to see my sick daughter, and that I desperately needed a ride. He asked if i was okay to leave, and looked hesitant. I offered him a sum of money, and at first he refused to take it, but noticing that I was desperate and in hurry, he let me in the front seat. I told him that I would get in the back of the car, and in I went.

This was a few months ago. Where I am now is a mystery, perhaps something I will keep secret until the end. But at that moment, sitting in the back of a mail truck with my fat cat and only a small luggage, There was no where that I would rather be.

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doomedandstoned · 7 years

Photo

'Abbey Rose' An Excursion Into The Malevolent World of The Munsens

~Review by Billy Goate~

Live Photos by Javier Armendariz and Travis Heacock (B&W)

I've always had a soft spot for the MUNSENS, going back to the 'Weight of Night' (2014) days. My first opportunity to meet and interview the Denver band came during their 2015 tour stop in Eugene, and the performance did not disappoint. They're an affable bunch; down to earth dudes who enjoy skating, photography, and leveling concert halls with ripe riffage.

In the intervening years, Mike Goodwin (bass, vocals) and Shaun Goodwin (guitar) have teamed up with a new member to the Munsens clan for a second record, 'Abbey Rose' (2016) -- a dark, dramatic huddle of tracks averaging +/- 10 minutes each.

I asked Mike for some background on the new EP.

"Following the release of Weight of Night we didn’t play for quite a while," he recounts, "as our original guitarist Jon decided he was going to live in Asbury Park, New Jersey full-time and wasn’t going to be able to come out to Denver to join us permanently, or even periodically, as we’d done throughout the history of the band."

The hunt was on for a replacement.

"Shaun and I continued to write and were set on finding the right person to join us, rather than rush a new lineup together. Ultimately, we decided Shaun would move from drums to guitar and we would bring in a new drummer." The two met Graham Wesselhoff "through our friends in Cloud Catcher and we’ve been running with it from there. We are thrilled to have him in the band."

These mods to the lineup "played a significant part in the construction and sound of Abbey Rose."

I confess, it did take me a while to get into this record, though I've generally found this to be the case with compositions that operate on a grand scale (Dopesmoker being a prime example). The Munsens are clearly going for the long game with Abbey Rose, preferring a carefully crafted climate of fear and loathing over quick thrills. These insistent riffs burrow deep into the subconscious, baptizing us into a world of the uncanny.

Stylistically, let me just say how great it is to hear honest-to-goodness, bass-driven doom. So much of the genre has become dominated by the guitar that it's easy to forget that the bass is so much more than a compliment to the rhythm section. The capacity of the bass to step up to a leading role is something that, by now, has been amply demonstrated by duos Swamp Ritual, TVSK, Year of the Cobra, and the great Norwegian quintet Reptile Master.

Now, it's time we tackle this beastly anthology track-by-track...

1. You're Next

Abbey Rose by the Munsens

The album opener is a dank, brooding number, with seething vocals that drip with spite and hint of revenge. "You're Next" and the pieces that follow are send backs to the classic ballad. No, not the power ballads of '80s hair metal fame. I have in mind dramatic stories set to song, like the unthinkable tale of Goethe’s Erlkönig, scored so powerfully by Franz Schubert. The tradition reached a pinnacle in the 19th century, but saw revival in early blues and the folktales Bob Dylan.

There's definitely something sinister afoot in the epic before us. We feel its stench in the raspy strain of the singing, the prominence of its black hearted baseline, and that dense wall of sound surrounding us. There's a real sense of presence here, owing in no small part to the live recording (something the Munsens have insisted on for both EPs). We have Jamie Hillyer of Module Overload to thank for capturing the ambience, as it were, of an empty church hall draped in shadows. Dennis Pleckham of Bongripper put on the finishing touches, mastering at his Comatose Studios.

"You're Next" has developed quite a bit since I filmed the Munsens performing it year before last at Old Nick's Pub. "Though it was written prior to Graham’s addition, his drumming has given the song a new feel," Mike observes. "Shaun and Jon also have much different guitar playing styles. Shaun had the structure and theme of that song in his head for quite some time, but it didn’t really take shape until we began jamming it out with the new lineup."

Wade in the water Cast your eyes on the sea Looming in torture Beyond the still of the leaves

As I listen, my chest tightens; my throat is seized with dread. Clearly, I've become entangled in the tentacles of my own imagination, as I did at 12 years old when I swore that a lanky, medieval Satan was hiding in my closet. The song "can be probably taken a few different levels," Mike tells me, "but that’s up to the listener."

Notwithstanding the ambiguity of interpretation, I found it helpful that the Munsens included lyrics for this release (obscure as they may be). Personally, it's beyond annoying when a band withholds the words to their songs. I understand the reasoning, but it really distracts from the listening experience when I'm left to guess what the hell's being said. But I digress...

"We are psyched on how it turned out," Mike reflects, "though I think we all wish we had a bit more time to work on it, particularly with the drums. We thought they could have been 'larger.' The lack of time to experiment the way we wished was part of the reason we released Abbey Rose as an EP, despite the running length."

2. Abbey Rose

Abbey Rose by the Munsens

Following "You're Next" comes the record's namesake, which is "framed around The Abbey Rose, a place that yields the image and world an individual desires, or thinks they desire, at the price of having to live with that persona infinitely." The mood is reinforced by Mike Goodwin's ominous cover photo of an institution frozen in the clutches of night.

The cobblestone is rigid Yet it yields not a glimpse nor a sound The street offers no entrance No, the guests here, go around

The subtext of "Abbey Rose," we're told, is "the insufferable narcissism of our modern age, pushed to extremes by digital personas. The additional irony lies in that the individual is able to attain and admire all they ever wanted, but are unable to present it to the world around them, the reason they desired such an appearance in the first place."

Curious about this worldview, I pressed Mike for details. "I imagine a dismal view of the chaos and absurdity around us," he says. "Lyrically, I wanted this EP to have something of a common thread, and 'You’re Next,' 'To Castile,' and 'Abbey Rose' are a bit similar in that they address a life spent pursuing something that doesn’t exist. Or should the outcome indeed exist, is it worth the sacrifices endured to achieve it?"

Ultimately, "Abbey Rose" is an admonition against "flawed personal motivation, the groupthink of society, and religious zeal."

3. To Castile

Abbey Rose by the Munsens

"To Castile" takes "the slightly enlightened perspective of someone who has finally realized that it is all just an empty pursuit. But even when staring the end in the face, they are still wrapped up enough in the bullshit that they continue to play the role. It has a religious bend, through a fictional letter from Joan of England to her father Edward III from the Port of Bordeaux, while her envoy her swiftly killed by the plague."

I look from high out in the night This fright, it will be mine

The smart pacing of this song and its placement on the EP helps to establish an interconnected narrative. It's something that really differentiates Abbey Rose from other records. Admittedly, it is difficult to put something this cohesive together, let alone write a competent concept album that doesn't come across as a loose collection of songs.

4. The Hunt, Part II

Abbey Rose by the Munsens

The clear standout of the record for me is its final track, which guitarist Shaun Goodwin says is "about an evil being that haunts a village." Part I of "The Hunt" actually began on the prior EP, where "the story is told from the perspective of those haunted by this witch. They rally to hunt her until finally capturing her ('We’ve got the witch, the high is ours')." Part II is told "from the evil being’s point of view, as she returns to haunt those that thought they had defeated her."

I will never die I will always rise I will haunt again There will be nothing left This is revenge

As with previous stories, there's an underlying meaning: "It's a metaphor for the evils in life that we each encounter -- addictions, bad relationships, etc. -- and the highs and lows that come along with them."

Mike elaborates: "Part I tells of the elated feeling after seemingly overcoming these wicked vices. Part II brings the return of such evils, as they so often do in our lives. Both tracks, and the riffs/lyrics in these tracks, are structured in such a way that you can feel these high and lows as the witch is hunted, defeated, and then encountered once again in stronger force."

We definitely get this impression from the guitar play, which now steps up to a more prominent role. Shaun's riffmaking is teeming with emotion, building and building to a perfectly choreographed climax.

"Perhaps this metaphor does not hold true for everyone, but it represents a battle that many of us face on a daily basis. I guess it can be interpreted as 'the hunt' for mental peace."

Thus ends our tour through the imposing Abbey Rose. If you dig it as much as I do, there's more to come. "I’d say this album is a lot more thought out than anything else we’ve released, but our upcoming full album -- out late summer-- will feel more complete." The band concludes, "We’ve also been looking to further define our individual sound in a realm that can feel increasingly contrived and this EP, in our opinion, is a greater step in that direction."

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