#one person specifically said I was ‘stalling’ but like :( I’m drawing out the tension. if I do things too quickly it won’t have any umph. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

allsaiint · 2 months

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↠ master chief/gender neutral!reader

↠ word count: 1800

↠ chapter one | chapter two

↠ masterlist

↠ description: john has no idea how to date, but he'll try his best.

↠ warnings: potential for out of character | potential for dismantling of canon | gender neutral!reader may change in future chapters

↠ author’s notes: this is based on a mix of game-canon chief and television series chief. take it as you will. if i did happen to use specific terminology to describe the reader, let me know.

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The instant John entered the park, he sensed something was different. So late on a Wednesday evening, the only thing playing in the open air theatre was a group of young violinists, no more than high school aged. There were a few people milling about, most likely parents there to encourage the group. Others were gathered on the outskirts, at the top of the coliseum style seats. They were cloistered in twos and threes, their conversations jumbling together over the sounds of the music.

You were the lone exception, standing towards the top of the steps, half-hidden by shadows. John had never seen you before, though there had been a recent influx of newcomers to the Reach. It was mostly scientists, after a mass exodus had left gaping holes in their military programs.

He caught the way your brow furrowed a split second before he realised he had been staring. You shifted back when he tried for a smile, and gave it up as a lost cause. In some ways, the act of interacting with new people still bemused him.

He was surprised, then, to hear footsteps approach, and turned just enough to witness you falter three steps above him. Over the din of the crowd, he could hear the race of your heart, so fast that he was surprised when you managed an actual greeting.

“You’re new to Reach?”

He had to change tracks at the last minute, turning it from a statement into a question. He had also had no designs to sit, but found himself doing so anyway when you introduced yourself.

You nodded. “I took a job at the USMC. Have you been here long?”

“My entire career,” he answered, and watched close for your reaction. He suspected that you were unaware of who he was, as most civilians were. Few knew what the Master Chief looked like without his helmet on, and a majority were within the USMC.

His suspicion was proven right when you asked, “You’re a Marine, I take it? How long have you been in?”

Something in the way you asked, or perhaps it was the lack of starstruck wonder he was so used to, made him lie through his teeth, answering, “Thirty years, give or take a few.”

Eyebrows raising, you replied, “You look so young, though.”

A product of spending so much time in a suit of armour, he supposed. Instead though, he said, “You look fairly young yourself. What made you want to take a job here?”

Your smile slipped, and you ducked your head to face your knees. “My homeworld was glassed not long ago. I figured here would be the safest place to go, after that.”

“I’m sorry,” John offered, watching the way you began to pick at a split in your lip before, very abruptly, you turned to snap a tie around your wrist. “I heard about it, after I returned from a deployment. I’m glad you made it out.”

“Me too,” you replied with a quiet laugh. “You’re actually the first person I’ve met outside of work here.”

That made John chuckle and over it, he heard the way your heartbeat skipped. “I’m honoured, really.”

Conversation stalled for a few moments, and John could see how you pretended to watch the violinists to make it seem natural. There was a tension in your shoulders that gave away your desire to say something though, and you were rubbing your palm with your thumb. You would press hard in the very centre then relent before looking at John. It was quite nice to know that your nervousness was genuine, and not borne of being in the presence of the great Master Chief.

“Do you deploy a lot?” you asked at last, drawing John from his thoughts. The way you asked was stilted, as though you had dredged the question from the depths of your desire to say anything at all. “It seems like I never see the same face twice.”

“I do,” he agreed, and wondered what to tell you. The people you would deal with most often were the general ranks, those who stood a worse chance of surviving an encounter with Covenant. “I’m between drops, at the moment, but one will likely come in in the next few days. Covenant has been busier than usual.”

“I heard rumours that they were looking for something, but couldn’t find it. The Spartans either found it first or destroyed it or something like that.” You snapped the tie on your wrist once, hard. “That’s why they started glassing so many planets— they were really upset, whatever they were looking for.”

It always surprised John to find out how close the rumours turned out to be to the truth. He often wondered who started with the truth, and how long it took the details to be lost. It reminded him of the game he played as a child with the other trainees. One would whisper a sentence from across a room or through a glass, and it was the listener’s job to relay what was said. It had taken him a long time to realise that the “game” was actually training, learning to lip-read. The more serious the children took the task, the better the results were, but not until their augmentations were there ever perfect results.

“Well, in any case,” you said, drawing John from his thoughts again and offering him a smile, “maybe when you’re here, you can come visit me at the aquarium. Since I’ll never be able to find and all.”

With a rough, quiet laugh, John said, “Could see about making that work. Do you have to go now?”

“Should,” you agreed, but lingered where you stood. “I have an early shift tomorrow, and a bit of a ride home.”

Shifting to his feet as well, he said, “Let me walk you?”

“Oh, it’s— I live all the way in Immoria. It’s too much to ask—”

“I don’t mind,” John said, cutting your rambling off with a small smile. He found them rising easier in your presence. “I’d rather be sure you get home safe. Call it paranoia.”

“Well, if you insist,” you agreed, though it was with an air of exasperation. The tick playing at the corner of your mouth indicated that you were pleased beneath that though.

The next bullet train was due in five minutes, and you sidled closer as the waiting crowd grew and closed in. The way you flinched was almost imperceptible when you leaned into John, and your laugh was embarrassed.

“I don’t even like eating in the caf at work,” you admitted, but allowed his hand to stay where it was on your back. “I don’t care much for crowds since—”

“I get it,” John said as the train came to an abrupt stop in front of you. There was just the one, and it hurtled back and forth across the city twenty-four hours a day. You remained close as the train began to move, curling your free hand into his shirt when someone knocked into you. The culprit offered John a smile full of mock apology that dwindled beneath his scowl, until they shifted to give you your space.

You were busy watching the scenery pass, and startled when John asked, “If you dislike crowds, what do you do at the complex?”

“Oh, they stuffed me into some little corner room with a few other researchers. I don’t really have to deal with too many people. Thankfully.”

“I see. What did you do before this?”

You shook your head. “I travelled around, studying species in their natural habitats, how we affected them, boring stuff like that.”

“It doesn’t sound boring,” John said, and watched your eyes widen as though you were surprised to hear it. If he had to describe it, it sounded peaceful. “If you enjoyed it, it wasn’t boring.”

“Well, fair enough,” you said with a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. “Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Yes,” he replied on reflex. No one in recent memory had asked him that and, in truth, he was unsure of the truth in his answer. He had never been given the choice to decide if he enjoyed what he did or not.

Something must have shown through in his response, because the look you cast him came with a frown. You seemed to come to some decision or assumption on your own though, and uncurled your fist to lay flat on his chest.

A little too mired in his own thoughts again, John let silence reign after that. He followed you down the street with an absent mind, aware somewhere in the recesses of it that the inattention was unbecoming of the Master Chief. He found it happening with more frequency though, since—

“Well, this is me,” you said. “Thank you for walking me.”

“Like I said, I’d rather know you got home safe,” he replied, taking the building in. It was twenty something stories, but still short compared to most in the city. A pair of doormen stood just inside, prepared to open the doors for you.

You stalled again; it seemed you had something more to say. He heard the pace of your heart increase, and his focus narrowed in on the flicker of your pulse beneath your skin.

“Do you have a data pad, by chance?” you asked after a harsh swallow.

“It’s broken,” John said. His attention turned to your face just in time to register the way it crumpled in disappointment. With more gentleness, he continued, “I’d like to see you again, though.”

The words felt foreign, coming from him. If you noticed, you chose to ignore it when you agreed. John was surprised at how eager you seemed, and found it hard not to let it envelop him.

“At the park tomorrow? Same time?” he said. Again, he was met with eager agreement that made him smile. “Good. Goodnight then.”

Your sharp inhale in response was so subtle that even he almost missed it. Your eyes widened and your throat bobbed before you replied, “Night, John.”

Even you seemed to realise how hoarse you sounded and made to turn away, but not before John caught look of embarrassment flash across your face. He watched you scurry inside, and waited until the door was securely latched before allowing himself the laugh that had been brewing all evening.

#master chief x reader #john 117 x reader #halo master chief x reader #master chief x you #john 117 x you #halo master chief x you #halo fanfic #master chief fanfic

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littlekatleaf · 3 years

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The Dreams in Which I'm Dying

Well wtf, it's a new fandom for me. Unexpected! I started watching D/imension20 RPGs and fell in love with F/abian Seacaster and G/arthy O'Brien from F/antasy H/igh and P/irates of L/eviathan. This takes place 20 years after the events of the games.

And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad The dreams in which I’m dying Are the best I’ve ever had. ~ Tears for Fears, Mad World

It begins with nightmares - dark, heavy things Fabian doesn’t remember on waking. At least, not the first few nights. He’s left with nothing more than vague shadows and a lingering sense of unease. Everything seems wrong - his apartment simultaneously too big and claustrophobically small. He’s suffused with restlessness. He knows something’s coming, like a squall brewing just beyond the horizon. He might not be able to see the gathering clouds, but feels the barometric pressure plummeting.

At first he attempts to dance out of the way - to dodge and evade - but the dread wraps around him like his own battle sheet, tangling him tight. He tries to ignore the tension singing along his shoulders, the constant twist in his gut. It’s nothing, he tells himself, less than nothing. There’s no time for it to be something. Rumor has it the ship carrying one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw will reach the mouth of Leviathan in mere days. If he’s going to meet it, he needs to pull together a party. Barely enough time remains to cement plans once he knows the group’s strengths and weaknesses.

As he paces his living room, trying to outrun the apprehension, Fabian’s eye is caught by a piece of red string, like Riz always used in his conspiracy boards. In that instant he longs for them. The Bad Kids. No matter how many years passed since any of them were kids, it’s still at the heart of who they are. (Isn’t it?) They fit together in their roles. Like that movie Kristen made them all watch once - a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. The others had bickered good naturedly over roles that night - specifically who was the basket case. Kristen joked it was Gilear. Ragh said it was her. Fabian didn't need to argue because he knew the truth - Riz was the brain, Gorgug the athlete, Adaine the princess, Fig the criminal, Kristen the saint. Himself the basket case. Even in all the intervening years, he’s never found a group that connects as well as they had, before they all went their separate ways. Even if they hadn’t lost touch, none of the others adventure anymore. In their absence he needs to choose alternatives, like he always does, attempting to fill the holes they left behind - and failing.

He picks up his crystal, turning it over in his hands. The group chat is saved, they are all still members, but no one has used it in years. Maybe he’s wrong; maybe he needs to let them go.

He knows there’s no time for self-indulgence. But he still stalls, the trepidation casting a fog of doubt over every option. He cannot decide on even one person to trust. Perhaps this time he should go alone. He can defeat one single pirate himself. The rest - crew and spoils alike - is irrelevant. The Maelstrom’s Maw will likely bring in the boat and then he can attack. He rubs his forehead against a growing headache and puts the decision off again.

Two nights pass, with only the lightest veil of sleep and even that torn by disquiet. The intervening days feel equally foggy with a mix of exhaustion and dread. Fabian drags himself through the necessary tasks by his fingernails until he’s done everything he can without a crew. A crew on which he still has not managed to settle. In the midst of circling the problem for the five hundredth, or five thousandth, time his crystal flashes an alert. The ship’s been sighted just a few nautical miles off Harroway Bay and will reach Leviathan before dawn. He’s waited too long, he realizes. It will be a solo adventure, then. Nothing else for it.

Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that he’s made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadn’t considered that the pirate’s shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirate’s once before he hears heavy boots closing fast.

The pirate thrusts and he manages to parry, but only just. His body feels strange and disconnected, as though he’s a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly there’s a flash of light on another drawn sword and several more pirates surround him. At his best he can handle eight, maybe ten. He is not at his best, and light from the streetlamp falls on fifteen.

The pirate grins. “Yer goin’ down, boy.”

“Not a boy anymore.” At least he’ll die in battle, and if he’s very lucky he’ll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.

“That remains to be seen,” another says.

The battle is fierce. Swords clash, lunge and dodge, strike-parry-riposte, movements Fabian knows in his sleep, but something is wrong. His body won’t obey. His lungs ache and he can’t catch his breath. Sweat drips into his eye, burning. And then - an opening - the pirate attacking leaves his flank unguarded and Fabian darts in fast - too fast to pull back when he realizes it’s a feint.

I’m fucked, he has time to think, as the pirate whirls. A sharp blow cracks across his elbow, his fingers go numb and his sword falls, clattering to the cobblestone. One of the crew kicks the back of his knees and he stumbles forward and drops. He grabs for his sword, but just as his hand closes around it, the point of the pirate’s sword is at his throat. Should have known it would end this way. Alone. On Leviathan. Fitting for it to be here, tonight - on the anniversary. The way it should have ended if he hadn’t run like a coward, abandoning Alistair to Captain James. Fabian fumbles in his pocket for his crystal, wishing for just enough time to send a last message to the Bad Kids. “Do it,” he says from between gritted teeth.

The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. “Ain’t worth the world o’ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bim’s a right devil and yer marked as his. Can’t let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.”

A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls… and falls… and falls…

through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like he’s been swallowed whole and still he falls through freezing darkness until the ocean parts and he falls through fire and the flames crackle and whisper - What will you tell the Captain when you meet him in Hell? Have you written your name on the face of the world, Fabian? No, you have written nothing. Nothing to be remembered by. Even your friends have forgotten you. How does it feel to be a failure of a pirate and a failure of a friend? the whisper turns to choking smoke and

Fabian coughs himself awake, lungs aching like he’s been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where he’d fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His body’s not been hijacked. Not dropped here by imps. He blinks up at the sky for a long moment, struggling to orient himself. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even a sliver of moon. Fat drops of rain pelt down, edged with ice. He blinks the water from his eye and pushes himself to his feet. Once again he staggers through the streets of Leviathan, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. This time, however, there’s no Cathilda to wrap him in a blanket, no Hangvan to disappear into. No Kristen to slap sense back into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but the rain soaks his shirt and finds no warmth.

Those he passes take no notice of him, perhaps assuming he’s nothing more than another drunken pirate. Even so, he needs to find a place to lay low. Given enough time someone will roll him just to see if he has any coin. Or simply for the fun of it. He’s not even sure, at this moment, that he could defend himself against a single assailant. His head aches where the pirate hit him and his throat is unaccountably raw. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he sneezes. Once, twice, thrice, smothered in the sleeve of his shirt. He always sneezes in threes. Riz teased him mercilessly about it.

“If you’d just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, you’d be done in one, Fabiahn,” Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.

“It’s called being polite, The Ball,” he’d reply. “And what do you know about normal?”

“About as much as you.”

They’d laugh together and Fabian’s embarrassment would ease. He would give anything for Riz to be laughing with him now.

Suddenly a door slams open and a wash of warm yellow light spills over the ground in front of him. He glances up. Maybe Kristen sent Cassandra to watch over him, because his meandering path has brought him to the Gold Gardens. The exiting patron brushes past with a muttered curse, but Fabian barely notices. As the doors swing shut, Bob’s voice slips through, full of dream and promise. Fabian checks his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief at the comforting feel of coin.

He stands straighter, raises his chin, allowing the light to fall on his face, scars and eyepatch and all, as the Goliath guard regards him suspiciously. Though it has been some time since he’s been on Leviathan and longer since he’s sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation he’s built in the intervening years yet holds. “Good evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,” he says. “I have payment.”

The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. It’s likely that she’s seen worse. “Ah, Master Seacaster. Garthy O’Brien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.”

Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bob’s voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but can’t stop the inevitable. He’s barely inside before he’s sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!” He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.

“Blessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?” Garthy touches his shoulder gently and before he can stop himself, Fabian flinches away. His skin feels too tight, even the light pressure too much sensation. They take a step back, one hand raised in a calming gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Garthy,” Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. He’s not sure he pulls it off, because a small frown of concern still lingers between their brows. Somehow the expression does nothing to mar their beauty; the proprietor of the Gold Gardens is exquisite as always, the few silver threads in their black dreads the only indicator of years passing. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.” His mouth quirks. “Might there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?”

Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. It’ll only make them more suspicious. He concentrates on keeping his expression vaguely flirtatious, his stance loose and easy. At last Garthy gives the smallest nod, allowing him his ruse. “I have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.” They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.

Bob’s voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The Bad Kids always stayed in a room just off the main parlor, right in the midst of the action. Fig and Gorgug would take over for the house band and practically blow the roof off. Kristen would try to outdrink that biggest pirate she could find, and usually ended up drunk-best-friends with everyone. If Tracker had to pull her out of a fight or two, well, that just kept things interesting. Ragh and Fabian would drink too much mead and take too much snuff and Ragh would challenge the wrong people to wrestling matches and Fabian would beat the wrong people at dice and sometimes fists would be thrown. Good naturedly, of course. Adaine would watch them all over the spine of a book from the Compass Points and shake her head. Sometimes she had to heal one or another of them, but she never seemed to mind. Riz would disappear into the crowd for indeterminate amounts of time, only to suddenly appear at their table with a sharp-toothed grin and clues to whatever mystery they were trying to solve that he’d gleaned from overheard conversations. Fig and Kristen, especially, never wanted the nights to end. Sometime around dawn, though, Kristen and Tracker would peel off, followed by Fig and Ayda. The rest of them shared a room, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug, and Ragh all sprawled on a huge bed while Adaine tranced on a chaise nearby. Somehow Fabian slept better those nights than before or since, even though the room was never peaceful, or silent. Ragh and Gorgug snored. Adaine muttered to herself in her trance. Riz, when he slept, was restless, taking up more room than a three and a half foot tall goblin should. When he didn’t, his pen would scratch across his notebook for hours. None of it ever bothered Fabian.

A door creaks open, startling Fabian out of his thoughts. The room Garthy offers is a small and simply furnished space, just a bed, desk, and fireplace. Fabian crosses the room to a large window and looks out over the edge of the city to the black ocean beyond. It’s still raining, drops pattering against the pane. He should say something to Garthy. Thank them for the room, make a joke about another Leviathan brawl gone badly. He can’t find the words. Any words.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?” Garthy’s voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.

“No, thank you,” he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathilda’s voice in his head. I don’t deserve kippers. He didn’t. Doesn’t. Twenty men dead. Twenty innocent men. Worst of all, Alistair Ash. Still a child. Dead because he needed to prove that he was a true pirate, heir to his father’s fame. That he is worthy. Instead he left Alistair to the fate that should have been his. He rubs his hand over his eye as though he could rub away the ache. The failure.

Garthy whispers something Fabian doesn’t catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. “At least let me take your wet things,” they say. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized how cold he still feels, despite being out of the wind and rain, until Garthy points it out. He takes a breath to declare, again, that he’s fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. “H’ngxt! Fuck. H’Ntch! Ngxt!” He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. “Pardon me.” Before he can gather himself, he’s overtaken again. At least this time he has a handkerchief to mute the sound. The sneezes shiver through him hard enough to send drops of rain spattering from his hair.

“Bless you, darling.” Garthy draws him closer to the fire. With deft fingers they undress him, peeling sodden clothes from his body, then wrap him in a thick robe. He doesn’t resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like it’s happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. “Come, have a lay down. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

Fabian nods, even though he’s certain things will look just the same. He barely slides between the sheets when his eye drifts closed. He feels the bed dip slightly as Garthy sits beside him and, seeking warmth, he curls close. They smell spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and sandalwood and orange blossoms. Garthy curves a hand over his forehead. It’s strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthy’s hair, but instead he drifts out and out and…

floats in a strange grey emptiness. He can only identify his surroundings by absence. No color. No sound. No touch. He thinks he lifts his hands, or tries to lift his hands, or what should be his hands, but there’s nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. It’s like the Nightmare Forest, but worse because they defeated the Nightmare King. They defeated Kalina. Which means this must be real. This nought. Of course no one reaches out… you don’t exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.

“...safe…You’re all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.” Garthy’s voice coalesces from the cold, at first sounding sharp as ice breaking. But they know his name, beckon him back into form by shaping the word. “Come on, darling. You’re dreaming.”

“Should’ve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you don’t have a body,” he mumbles, and even though he has vocal cords again, he sounds nothing like himself. He clears his throat, sniffs.

Garthy laughs, low and kind. “Let me help you feel better, here in your body.” They cup his cheek gently, then urge him up and through a door to a bathing chamber.

A large bathtub stands in the center of the room, steam rising in soft curls. It is surrounded with dozens of candles and in their light Garthy glows, irises and tattoos molten gold. Fabian reaches for them, hesitantly. As if touching them might dim their shine. They smile tenderly, allowing him to trace the Zajiri script, the flowers and leaves with one tentative finger. He wonders what the writing might mean. Their skin is soft under Fabian’s own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until he’s finally warm. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. “I’m not w…” he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. “Ht’ngxt! Heh...ihh… Nxgt! H’tchh!”

“Not well?” Garthy suggests, steadying him. “Blessings.”

Heat rises in Fabian’s cheeks and he coughs a laugh. “That either. But no.” He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. “Not worth this.”

Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. “Oh, lovey, of course you are.” They press one finger to Fabian’s lips before he can continue arguing. “Shh. It’s all right.” They take Fabian’s elbow, guiding him into the bath.

Fabian sinks into the heat with a deep sigh as his muscles begin to relax. He slides down, submerging himself completely in warm darkness. The water closes over his face; he rests his head on the bottom of the tub, and the only thing he hears is the thump of his own heart in his ears, still beating, beating, beating. At last his breath runs out and he surfaces with a gasp.

Gathy’s pulled a stool up beside the bath and as Fabian wipes water out of his eye, they wet a cloth and begin to wash his back, humming quietly. The soap smells of eucalyptus and peppermint, cool and clean. Fabian shivers once, and only slowly eases into the touch, closing his eye as Garthy washes his hair, gently working his fingers over his scalp. A memory rises, unbidden - himself, in the bath, he can’t be more than five and he’s sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though it’s not even dark outside and he’s sick and scared. But then Cathilda’s there, as she always is, and she’s cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.

“What’s distressing you, love?” Garthy asks.

It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. “It’s been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldn’t it have faded?” He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I still see them, you know. My father’s warlocks.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.

Garthy hums a listening noise.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crow’s Keep - we’d gone there together, my papa and I. When I was little. It was the one time Mama got angry at him, for bringing me to Leviathan, when he wasn’t supposed to be interacting with pirates. But he’d taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said he’d bring me to the top of the world, that we could touch the clouds. If I was lucky, I might even bring some home in my pockets…

“He gave me cotton candy, told me it was one he’d harvested himself. I’d never imagined clouds tasted so sweet…” he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.

“I thought, maybe… somehow… if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.” Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. “Of course, Papa wasn’t listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.

“When the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what I’d done… and it wasn’t enough. I killed him and it wasn’t enough.” He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. “I thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for… everything.” He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He can’t get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclaw’s tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.

“It went so fast. So fast. If I didn’t run… if I didn’t… he would have killed me… with the others. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him… and I didn’t die, but he did. Because I fucked up.” Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.

“I thought the guilt would fade,” he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. “I thought the good I’ve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasn’t. It doesn’t. And they’re gone… I thought killing the last of Whitclaw’s men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.”

The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. “Am I forgivable?”

“Oh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.” They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. “Yes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your father’s footsteps; you found your own way. You have made a good man of yourself. You help those who are in need. You do not take advantage of anyone. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. Tales of your deeds are not spoken of as widely as Captain Bill Seacaster, but I have heard them nonetheless. Be proud of who you have become, Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And you should know that Alistair Ash lives again.”

A warm breeze whirls through the room and the candles suddenly go out. It’s as though the light has been transmuted into a seed of hope in Fabian, gold as the irises of Garthy’s eyes. Back in bed, Fabian curls into Garthy and they wrap their arms around him, holding tight until his trembling passes.

#snezfic

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intheseautumnhands · 3 years

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Sorting The Last 5 Years

Hello I’m back with yet more tiny fandom sorting because I have Thoughts and also, Feelings. Let’s talk about The Last 5 Years, which has ranked consistently among my favorite all-time musicals for so very, very long, and has such great characters for dissecting.

First some brief housekeeping: This is based specifically off the script for the stage show, and the cast recording version by Norbert Leo Butz and Sherie Rene Scott in 2002. I have not been lucky enough to see this live. I also promise no consistency with the movie because I just... nope, sorry, don’t like it. I think I remember things being consistent enough that this’d probably be good for both, but I’m not gonna try to include movie-based thoughts.

Second: I am not purposefully getting into the great “who was at fault” debate but I think my thoughts on them as characters makes it clear that I think both of them have flaws, and that while Jamie crossed a lot more lines at the end, neither of them are blameless for the relationship’s issues. SHC is always kinda YMMV, but even moreso than usually, if you’re really biased towards one side or the other, we probably read these characters very differently. Which is cool and I’d love to hear other opinions! But I will not be surprised if we disagree somewhere along the line.

I’m going to do this slightly different than usual -- since we’ve only got two characters to talk about, and I want to discuss how their houses bounce off each other, I’m going to go by house instead of discussing by character. In addition, I’m going to go Secondary first, because I have a lot I want to say about their Primaries.

Secondaries

In his second song of the show, Jamie tells us exactly how he approaches life:

But I say no, no, whatever I do I barrel on through, and I don’t complain No matter what I try, I’m flying full speed ahead.... Things might get bumpy, but Some people analyze every details Some people stall when they can’t see the trail Some people freeze out of fear that they’ll fail But I keep rolling on

If I had to pull out one singular moment to crystallize how he approaches things, that’d be it. Jamie doesn’t bother to stop and consider or change his approach. He sees what he wants, and he goes for it, and he’s lucky enough that that works out really, really well for him. And even when it’s a response to hardship, that’s still his approach. Just look at I Could Never Rescue You: so we could fight, or we could wait, or I could go. He decides there’s nothing else worth trying, calls someone else to help him leave, and goes.

Even when it’s not the best idea right now, when tempering what he has to say might help him get what he wants (If I Didn’t Believe In You) he doesn’t do it. Jamie charges, he’s stubborn, he’s set on what he wants -- he’s a pretty intense Lion, in other words.

Cathy tries to go after what she wants, too, but she ends up with several more obstacles in her way. While a lot of that is luck of the draw, she’s also a little more hesitant overall. Look at her running internal monologue throughout Climbing Uphill, second-guessing every decision (why’d I pick these shoes, why’d I pick this song, why’d I pick this career). In The Schmuel Song Jamie alludes to the same hesitance: maybe it’s just that you’re afraid to go out onto a limb(-o-vitch), maybe your heart’s completely swayed but your head can’t follow through.

She comes off as having that preparedness of a foundational Secondary -- I don’t see any hints of the breathless charge and certainty of a Lion, or the adaptability of a Snake. I honestly think either Bird or Badger would be suitable for her, and could easily be played into in either direction depending on small acting choices.

Absent of other interpretations, I’m going to lean Bird, off that line from Jamie above and some of the little nuances of Sherie’s performances. There’s a lot of frustration that this all isn’t coming more easily that, while it probably has a lot to do with how easily things have come to Jamie, also leans me away from Badger a little bit; but she’s clearly not unwilling to put in the work, and I could absolutely see that interpretation working just as well.

Primaries

Interestingly, Cathy is outright stated as having the traditional Snake-y trait: don’t you think that now’s a good time to be the ambitious freak you are? That’s not why I’m going to say that Cathy’s a Snake Primary, and Jamie’s clearly got ambitions too, but it does make me smile a little.

Loyalist Cathy’s earliest (timeline-wise) songs are so full of Snake wrap-myself-up-in-my-favorite-person sentiments and lines. Goodbye until tomorrow, goodbye until the rest of my life, and I have been waiting, I have been waiting for you. You don’t have to change a thing, just stay with me. I want you and you and nothing but you, miles and piles of you. I don’t mean to put on any pressure, but I know when a thing is right. Once Jamie’s in her life, that’s it, he’s a priority. It is heartbreaking to go back over this show and realize how much more of what Cathy says is directly about Jamie than the other way around.

Even later on, after we get the first tiny signs of tension, it’s still there. In The Next Ten Minutes: I don’t know why people run, I don’t know why things fall through, I don’t know how anybody survives in this life without someone like you. I could protect and preserve, I could say no and good bye -- but why, Jamie, why? In Summer in Ohio: I found my guiding light, I tell the stars each night, look at me, look at him -- son of a bitch, I guess I’m doing something right.

It’s not even the first time she’s done this. In I Can Do Better Than That, she talks about a previous relationship in the same terms: I gave up my life for the better part of a year. When Cathy gets serious about someone, she makes them her priority,

And that’s what she gets, until that’s all she has, and she lashes out with the exact same thing she wanted at the beginning: you and you, and nothing but you, miles and piles of you. And I don’t think it’s because she didn’t actually want it. It’s because she thought it would be less one-sided.

Because idealist Jamie does put her high in his priorities, but he doesn’t put her first in the same, fixated way. Jamie’s instinctual and set-on-his-decisions Lion Primary chafes against Cathy’s expectation that he’ll put her above what he wants, fed into by that charging, bold instinct from his Secondary.

Which is not to say that Cathy isn’t important to Jamie. But the downfall in their relationship is that what that looks like is so different between the two of them, and they never figure out how to meet middle ground. They’re both unreliable, biased narrators in this story, and neither of them see what the other needs.

A while back, I talked about how different Primaries love. Jamie and Cathy could be case studies in what I said there, and especially in how that love can go bad.

Lion Jamie sees that they both have big dreams, and encourages Cathy to push her way forward on her dreams: Shouldn’t I want the world to see the brilliant girl who inspired me?... Stop temping, and go and be happy! He uses the thing that is most important to him -- his writing -- to encourage her, show her that he sees her hesitance and he believes in her. And when they’re having problems, he puts the blame on how her dreams are going first: Is it just that you’re disappointed to be touring again for the summer? Did you think this would all be much easier than it’s turned out to be?

And that’s where we get, I think, one of the biggest highlights of how they misunderstand each other: If I’m cheering on your side, Cathy, why can’t you support mine? Cathy feels unsupported, Cathy feels like everything has become all about Jamie -- but Jamie feels the same way. The kind of support they need is different, and neither of them see it.

(Even at the height of their love story, the one moment they’re at the same page, The Next Ten Minutes, it says so much to me that Jamie keeps getting these lines about a bigger picture that he and Cathy are just part of: there are so many dreams I need to see with you -- not dreams about them, dreams they can see come true together. I will never change the world, until, I do.)

And Jamie withdraws, and takes her more and more for granted, and steamrolls over her both accidentally -- A Part of That, and Cathy’s fierce declaration of I will not be the girl who gets asked how it feels to be trotting along at the genius’ heels getting disproven in front of her eyes -- and then purposefully, when he decides it’s time to stop trying.

Meanwhile, Snake Cathy sees that as the betrayal. She puts him first, makes him the priority, and when she doesn’t get that in return, she sees it as everything being about Jamie instead of the balance being equal. Fed into by her own ambitions going unfulfilled despite her own best efforts, she clings tighter, until he feels suffocated by it: all that I ask for is one little corner, one private room at the back of my heart, tell her I found one, she sends out battalions to claim it and blow it apart.

Until Jamie leaves, and Cathy is left bitter by it: Jamie is probably feeling just fine. Jamie decides it’s his right to decide. Run away, like it’s simple, like it’s right. Because to her steady, solid foundational Secondary and person-focused Snake, Jamie’s impulsive choice and quick action is cowardice at best, proof he doesn’t care as much at worst.

In summary:

Cathy Hiatt is a Snake Primary/foundational Secondary, either works with the text, but based on OCR, likely Bird.

Jamie Wellerstein is a Double Lion.

And Cathy’s person-first version of support VS Jamie’s dreams-first version of support, and their lack of understanding what each other is trying to provide and needs to recieve, is the entire crux of why their relationship fails, with some help from their uneven amounts of luck in their dream careers.

#sorting hat chats #Sortinghatchats #the last 5 years #the last five years #it is truly ridiculous how much of this is just me straight-up quoting lyrics with nothing else to add #which ALMOST makes me feel less ridiculous about it being almost 1500 words #if you read all that you get a cookie #i am SURE other people could read them totally differently #but that's theater for you!

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touchmycoat · 3 years

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I LOVE YOUR PORN AU!!!!! LIKE SO MUCH - and i'm just. if you don't mind me asking, how - the way you flesh out the characters, their motivations, and feelings in every scene in such an eloquent way, and just little things here and there, a habit or an activity that adds dimension to who they are, and - your prose is wonderful. you achieve this addictive, engrossing narrative space that readers just absolutely melt into, and i have to ask - how did you develop your writing style? 1/2

what books did you read that formatively shaped the way you write? or you know, what did you do to improve your writing? i'm so in awe of how you world-built and established the porn au - like lqg & hc being national taolu champions?? how do you come up with that stuff? i cannot comprehend the amount of research and effort that must've gone into porn au, and i'm just so deeply thankful that you decided to share that with us. i apologize if i'm coming on too strong, but wow. thank you 2/2

oh my god please don't apologize, when i saw your ask i rolled on the floor giggling hysterically for a solid 15 min, bless your heart

part of the answer to your question—i've taken like, 8 years' worth of creative writing classes/workshops! there was also a transnational literary component to my degree so whenever possible, i took literature classes fksjdfksd so whatever you see and like is definitely the result of a lot of work. My writing from not even 10 years ago but like, 5? horrid, ridiculous, wild, cringe. The Porn AU itself is the second draft of a MUCH more lackluster piece.

about my writing style. gosh, you really know how to make a writer blush. "I like your writing style" is literally an instant kill LMFAO okay okay, the useful answer: my primary criteria for choosing what to write is, don't be obvious, be interesting. Fiction tells us to show, not tell, right? Poetry is about concretizing the abstract. Screenwriting says cut all useless lines. A lot of writing rules and advice—never start with the weather, avoid detailed descriptions of the characters, don't use adverbs, etc.—are all really about this exact sentiment.

I once took a seminar on writing for horror movies. The golden rule of the horror genre is Never Show the Monster, because whatever the audience is imagining is always going to be scarier than what you actually show them. There are obviously exceptions to this (to all writing rules), but in my mind, it's all the same principle.

LONG answer under the cut

So you start with building a scene. I approach it like essay-writing—I state my thesis for the motivations/main propulsion of the plot. "In this scene, LQG and SY are motivated to save Cang Qiong's porn production, so they have sex on camera." Then you build the sub-motivations: "LQG is also doing this because he's pining after SY."

I learned this "thesis-writing" from theater, specifically from writing 10-min plays. Theater is all about characters being driven by their wants and needs, and the reason I say 10-min plays in particular is because longer forms of writing will give you more leeway, but in 10-min, you pretty much need your character motivations established from their very first line. That's why you need that very clear thesis for yourself—if you don't even know what the character wants from the get-go, then you can't establish who they are, what they want, and where they're going to go in a dynamic and interesting way.

So this thesis drives EVERYTHING that happens in your scene, just like an actual thesis for an essay, just like topic sentences for your paragraphs. Once I do this, I have the emotional direction & narrative scope of how much this scene will cover, I have a sense of where it begins and ends. "Begin with the dynamics of their sex. LQG starts showing signs of his feelings. Reveal LQG backstory for exactly what those feelings are and why he isn't telling SY. The rest of the scene implies that LQG's feelings may not be so unrequited, but also sets up the fundamental problem at the heart of the whole fic—SY's inability to comprehend his own feelings." This is kind of my new thesis now. They're having sex; LQG pines; SY doesn't know he himself is pining.

Now it's time to manifest. This is the "storytelling" part, and the hardest lmfao.

Personally, my approach is largely shaped by my very cool screenwriting teacher, who hammered into us: don't fucking waste lines. The Golden Rule of screenwriting is that every line should reveal something new. I found my old writing kind of repetitive, especially on the emotional front, so this is kind of my editing mantra now—is this line either propelling the story or revealing character? If it's revealing character, is it a revelation that has to happen right now, or is it slowing the momentum of the scene?

But these aren't rhetorical questions! "Momentum" doesn't just mean tumble forward as fast as you can, it also means taking the time to draw the bowstring back further, so your next move has even more propulsion. That's why you get the little "LQG has been in love with SY..." cut scene in the middle of the fucking (at least, that's my reasoning for putting it there). Every line has to bring a fresh revelation that "proves" your thesis further.

That brings me to the details. You said you like the details I inject into the world-building, and honestly that's so gratifying to hear, because that means I'm successfully manifesting my intentions, y'know? "Every line has to bring new info" kind of sounds like a tall order, but the most effective way I've seen it done in books and onstage/onscreen is with these hyper-specific details. If you're writing a scene in which someone feels dirty, never have them just say that—have them say they want to take a shower. Show them running out of bleach again as they scrub down the stall after they wash. Begin the scene like "Steve always washes his throat first now." Then pack the scene with even more revelatory details: "Soap in hand, he heard the pipes above his head groan for a half note on adagio, and readied himself for the blast of icy water that always followed." Shitty shower, probably not rich, is likely a classical musician.

By the same token, I want to build LQG's character. The "Liu Qingge has been in love with Shen Yuan" section is the first insight we get into his background and perspective, right, so: I need to establish LQG's emotional context for filming this scene -> I can characterize him as a nut for martial arts in the same stroke -> so this takes place at a gym, beating up sandbags is a classic way of showing manly emotional distress -> so give me more details on this gym -> Puqi Gym, XL the martial god is obviously the owner -> how do I have XL & LQG a relationship beyond gym owner & client? They spar together -> I want XL & HC's position in this AU to mirror their god/ghost king statuses in TGCF canon -> how can I concretize their fighting prowesses in real-world details? -> they're martial arts champions -> what's an actual competitive martial art form that involves weaponry? -> wushu -> wikipedia Wushu, find taolu weapons sparring

(I just realized that in my songxiao daycare AU, Hualian are Olympic gold medalists by the same narrative logic laksjdnflaksjdnflsd)

So, that's the flow of logic behind my world-building lmao. It's all in the details. Leverage is one of my all-time favorite TV shows and the way they build their stories is super inspiring. If their thesis is "the rich and powerful take what they want, we steal it back for you," they manifest it in the most specific and concrete narratives: mine workers who like the work but are fighting for workplace safety vs. the money-grubbing mine owner who will blow up their livelihoods if it means a bigger payday; the little girl from Iraq with refugee status forced to be an accomplice to antique smuggling vs. international smuggler with a fetish for British royalty.

Last pieces of writing advice I've gotten: pay attention to the real world. A writing exercise we did was just sit in a public spot and make concrete observations on our surroundings. There are stories in everything!!! I learned to observe things like weird holes in the concrete (earthquake? drilling accident? bullet mark?), odd patches of moss or bird shit (look overheard: it's an AC unit dripping water for the former and nesting swallows for the latter), ladies in flipflops walking alongside ladies in high heels (excited mother walking her antsy daughter to the bus for the daughter's first job interview—the daughter's shirt collar is unfashionable and she's taking the bus, so there's a good chance the shoes were passed down, maybe from an office lady aunt. Maybe she's even overdressed for the interview, so will her outfit be an unintended source of tension once she gets to the interview? Is it a group interview, to make the comparison more stark?).

Also, write what you know. You know why SY is a video editor in porn AU? Because I'm a video editor. One of my more popular MDZS fics is set in a plant shop 'cause I worked in a plant shop. SL was First AD in Bachelor!AU 'cause I was First AD on a set once. Concrete details like the editing software having a split-screen, always answering questions about how often to water plants, and being up until 3AM editing call-sheets are the ones that will fully immerse your readers.

And if you can't do the actual things, just watch someone who is, listen to them talk, pick up lingo, and fake it. I watched like a 15-min vox video on fencing for the fencing!AU and a 45-min music theory video on the hospital pianist!AU (also I started learning piano sklfjnlsdjlfkjsd). Of course, I just finished reading a wangxian fic that had me going, "holy fucking shit, the author is literally getting their masters in a music program" so my 45-min youtube video ain't shit, but if you just need a little bit of character establishment, then it's enough to do the trick.

Anyways, tl;dr. Find the details, find the tension. Never tell outright what the tension is supposed to be, manifest it instead. Make the manifestation as interesting as possible, and if it's meant to be funny, make it funnier.

Sorry this turned into a fucking lecture lskjnflskdjnflskd but last thing, someone asked me before if I had formative authors, and this was the list I wrote at the time:

Angels in America (play) by Tony Kushner

The God of Small Things (novel) by Arundhati Roy

The Penelopiad (novel) by Margaret Atwood

“Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed Out” (poem) by Richard Siken

Night Sky with Exit Wounds (poetry) by Ocean Vuong

Giovanni’s Room (novel) by James Baldwin (and then Go Tell it on the Mountain and then his essays)

Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger

And, ooh, now that I have this list I think I can even roughly sort it as such: Kushner, Atwood, Siken, and Salinger I really latched onto for their dialogue and very present narrator voice—same is true for Go Tell it on the Mountain. Roy, Vuong, and Giovanni’s Room, I think, are texts more representative of the kind of saturated figurative language I like, and emulate. Of course they all do imagery and voice and overall structure amazingly, but that’s the rough dividing line I’d draw.

But yeah James Baldwin is my fucking hero.

#long post #about me #writing #jesus sorry i spent way too long on this laksjdnflaskjdnflaskjndflas #but anyways i'm super grateful you gave me the chance to introspect and articulate all this #i'm exceedingly grateful too to all the writing mentors i've gotten to have #personal #these are the principles and rules i've learned and #i still definitely screw the pooch #on them #so you know this is just what's on my mind #this is how i school myself

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bidoldaccount · 3 years

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Erase All The Downsides - One

Intro

Word Count: 3,042

Pairing: Dean Winchester/Lisa Braeden (Temporary)

notes: cigarette use; anxiety; pining; singer Dean; No Ben

"Which one should I wear tonight?" Dean looked away from the mirror and looked at Lisa thoughtfully. The two dresses she was holding up were so vastly different from one another. In her right hand was a floor length red dress, covered completely in sequins. He could tell it would show off a lot of her cleavage, the dip in the chest would go to her sternum. In her left hand was a navy blue color, with lace sleeves, that puffed out on the bottom.

"I like the red," he said, smiling softly at her.

"Hm, me too," she kissed his cheek as she passed him in the bathroom. He returned his gaze to the mirror, putting the finishing touches on his hair. His hair was already fine, and Charlie would tease at it later, so this process was pointless, but he needed something to do so he wouldn't fray his nerves thinking about all of the people that would be at tonight's event. A few of the strands that he had carefully teased fell out of place as Lisa threw her top at him, smiling playfully at him in the mirror. He turned with a lazy smile, leaning against the bathroom counter and watching as she undressed. Her body was slim and her short height made her look smaller than he already was. Her hip bones jutted and her stomach was completely flat, the tightness of the dress showed this off, a thin line from top to bottom. Dean kissed her cheek when she was done dressing, leading the way out of the bathroom.

A cab was waiting for them outside when they walked out. Charlie, Dean's unofficial publicist, Benny, Dean's official manager, and Sam and Jess were already waiting for them at the venue. Paparazzi were swarming outside, buzzing and flashing, talking at them as they walked in. Dean kept his hand on Lisa's lower back, smiling politely, raising his hand in greeting at some. Lisa smiled as brilliantly as she always does, not shying away from the flashing cameras. She was a lifeline in social situations, her beauty and amenable personality life a safety blanket. She steered conversations as easy as breathing, and Dean's social anxiety always relied on that.

Meg Masters had started singing in 2013 and she skyrocketed to fame in the early months of 2015. Dean had met her around 2014 and they got together occasionally to write music together. He had his hands all over her second album and, likewise, she wrote half of his third. Dean genuinely liked her personality, so it wasn't a shock to him that he was invited to a charity event she was hosting. Everyone was dressed in their best, floor length evening gowns and pressed suits. Dean fiddled with the button on his jacket as they were directed to their table.

"Aren't you guys going to Florida this weekend?" Charlie asked, drawing Dean's attention away from all of the strangers surrounding them. The question was directed at Sam, who was sipping casually from a glass of champagne. Dean's not sure where he got it or when.

"Yeah, we're visiting Jess's sister, she had her baby so we're going down to meet it," he said.

"It?" Dean questioned with a laugh, "Sam, it's a baby, not an it," he said.

"Yeah, don't do that in front of my sister," Jess said with a soft laugh. Sam rolled his eyes and gesticulated.

"You know what I mean, I forget what it was," he defended.

"It's a girl, you dork," Jess said with an amused roll of her eyes.

"I sincerely hope you two wait a few more years to have kids, I'm surprised Sam has kept Bones alive this long," Benny said.

"Okay, says the guy who fed his dog chocolate yesterday," Sam said.

"It was an accident!" Dean relaxed in his chair a bit as they fell into an easy rotation of banter and light conversation. Meg took the stage twenty minutes into their arrival and began talking about tonight's purpose. She was raising money for the local LGBTQIA community, specifically geared towards mental health resources. She looked very passionate as she spoke, and Dean clapped when she finished. There were a number of people lined up to speak, half advocates and the other half teens from the community itself.

Dean got a glass of wine thirty minutes in, and it eased the tension in his throat. He kept his hand on Lisa's leg, trying to ground himself in the feel of her, trying not to squeeze too hard even though it was getting harder to anchor himself to her and all he wanted to do was squeeze harder. She gave him a look when his third glass of wine arrived, not judgemental, but definitely warning. Sam was talking about some new book Charlie loaned him, dissecting it with her, and Benny was talking to Lisa about the last speaker that was just on stage. Dean couldn't hear a word of it. He was sinking into his skin, and he was a second away from surrendering to it.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he whispered in Lisa's ear as he stood. She gave him a slight nod before returning her attention to Benny. Dean clenched his jaw and blinked a few times as he walked to the bathroom. Maybe he could sneak out for a smoke before the next speaker came on.

The bathroom was sparsely in use when he walked in. He ducked into the first stall he saw open and took a second to just breathe. He couldn't unclench his jaw, but his body felt a little more secure. He was still floating somewhere outside of it, but it wasn't as bad in this smaller space where he could press his back against the stall door and dig his feet into the ground.

He did his business and washed his hands with minimal anxiety, but his breath started to catch as he walked out. He stood still just outside of the door, looking across the room at their table. His friends and his girlfriend were all conversing without a care, he knew all of them had their own set of discomfort and anxieties, but he also knew they flourished in social situations. Benny was the only one who suffered like he did, but he was distracted by Charlie and Lisa. Dean knew he was fine, so he ducked over to the kitchen area. He was directed to the back door by one of the waiters and instructed to prop it open. When he pushed through, the air hit him hard. He sucked in a lungful as he propped the door open with a brick.

He gulped down the air with needy satisfaction, walking a few steps away from the door and settling with his back to the wall. His pack of cigarettes was a bit crumpled coming out of the pocket of his slacks, but he saw that none of the sticks were damaged when he pulled one out. He smacked his pockets in search of the lighter, sticking the cigarette between his teeth to free up his hand. He dug into his pants pockets, finding nothing but flimsy, expensive cotton. He grunted in panic as he searched his jacket pockets, almost ripping the inside in his haste to find the lighter that he obviously left at home.

"Need a light?" His breath hitched before he even looked up. Her eyes were soft and dim in the faint light of the alley.

There were times when Dean got that itch under his skin, that need to not be the one in control, where would think about this moment. The moment he was under the weight of her gaze again. After the first few months, when the panic attacks and the excessive crying calmed down, after he could breathe normal again, he thought the effect had worn off. Like a detox from a drug he didn't know he was taking. He thought the temptation would disappear. Obviously that is not the case, because here he is, sighing into the warm evening air, already feeling utterly intoxicated in her presence.

She looks almost the same. Four years later and she is just as beautiful. Her black hair fell down to her shoulder blades, pinned back because she hates it in her face, naturally wavy with a little product. Her eyes still make his heart stutter, worsened tonight but the shock and the guilt. They peer into him, reading his every thought, understanding his every emotion before he even feels them. He can't bring himself to look away, all he can do is hope that he doesn't look as shocked as he feels.

"I'll trade ya," her voice was just as he remembered it, if not a little deeper, she had probably been drinking, her voice dropped a little when she drank champagne. It took him a second to realize that Castiel was gesturing at the pack of cigarettes sticking out of his pants pocket. He probably looked like such a mess, with his clothes ruffled from searching them, his button up slightly yanked out of the waist of his slacks. He shut his mouth and swallowed hard as he pulled the pack out and offered them to her. Cas took them with a soft smile, taking one stick and handing it back. He didn't dare touch her, even though he wanted to. There was a guilty feeling creeping up his spine with how badly he wanted to touch. She lit hers first then offered him the lighter. The smoke seeped past her lips in smooth clouds, twisting and disappearing in the air above her. The lighter was warm from her purse, and he would bet anything that it smelled like Peach gum.

"Thanks," he muttered before lighting his own cigarette. Castiel smiled at him without responding verbally. The color of her lipstick stuck to the cigarette as she pulled it out of her mouth, her chest rising as she inhaled, then sinking as she pushed the smoke out.

"You doin' okay? You looked pretty far gone when you came out," she asked, holding her cigarette as she always has, her wrist bent with her palm up, the cigarette a slight flick away from falling from her middle and pointer fingers, elbow resting at her hip.

"Just, um, having a rough time with anxiety. Too many people, too much noise, I was feeling a bit out of body," he explained, unable to look away from her. He was afraid to look anywhere other than her eyes but he couldn't help looking down at her dress. It was a silk, a deep emerald green, reaching down to the floor. There was a slit at the right side, draped open around one leg. He had to look away when he got there, that guilt twisting in his gut again. She was watching him still, and his cheeks flared up under the attention. "I wouldn't have expected to see you here," he said, trying not to flat out ask 'what the hell are you doing here?'.

"Yeah, I run a shelter for teens, specifically for lgbtq+ teens who need a safe space. We have on campus counselors who work pro bono," she explained. He remembers her talking about that. It's been a few years but that passion is still in her voice. "I'm speaking later so I guess I'm glad I ran into you now. I'm sorry if I blindsided you, I know it's been awhile since we've seen each other," she said.

"Yeah," his collar got tighter as he glanced down at the ground, unable to hold her stare and not buckle beneath it.

"Am I making you uncomfortable? I can leave you alone, I would pass on the speech if it wasn't something so important," Cas took a step back, putting more space between them. Dean tried not to let his breath hitch again.

"No, no, I'm just," he blinked hard a few times, trying to clear the fog of shock and anxiety from his brain. "You're not..." he paused, swallowing on a dry throat. She waited patiently as he took a slow drag of his cigarette before finding his voice again. "You're not making me uncomfortable," he said.

"Okay," she took a step forward, still a respectable amount of space between them, maybe an arms length away, but that arm's length felt like an anchor, bringing him back into his own body. He's startled that she still has this much of an effect on him. "How have you been? You look like you haven't slept much," she looked away from him with that thoughtful tilt of her head, then added, "I'm sorry, I'm talking like I still know you, I don't want to make you uncomfortable, it's just surprising how well I can read you still."

It's surprising him too, though it really shouldn't. She has taken him apart piece by piece then carefully reassembled him, adding pieces of herself to make him whole.

"No, you're right. I haven't been sleeping too much recently. We're making plans for a new album and I'm anxious to start performing again. Isolation will do that to you, I guess," he shrugged.

"I understand, you've been on a break for about a year, right?" She asked. He looked up again, his cigarette pausing halfway to his lips.

"How'd you know?" He asked.

"I check in, see how you're doing," she shrugged one shoulder. The thought of it almost makes him fold in on himself. The thought of her pulling up articles of posts about him and his career, all of the things he's done without her. He shakes that thought away, the guilt squeezing.

"Yeah, about a year," he nods in response.

"So, what is it? Stage fright? You've been offstage for over a year, there are bound to be some kinks while you find your rhythm again," she said.

"Yeah, that's what everyone else is saying too," he took another drag, trying desperately not to look her in the eyes again, in fear that he won't be able to look away.

"Meaning that's not what you're afraid of. So what is it?" There it is again. She's too good at reading him. He sighed softly, flicking the ash burning tip of the cigarette.

"The last time we went on the road, I started doing bad shit, I was playing my best onstage because I was doing my worst offstage. I'm afraid that I'll fall back into it once we start up again," the confession rolls off of his tongue easily as soon as he makes eye contact again.

"Do they know?" She asked.

"Just Benny, I've been too ashamed to tell anyone else besides him. I didn't even really mean to, I just got too drunk one night and it all came pouring out," he said.

"You don't have to be ashamed of falling into a rough patch. People make mistakes and people do bad things, especially when it messes with the chemicals in their brains. If anyone tries to make you feel ashamed for having a hard time, then those aren't the people you want in your corner. I'm glad you told Benny, because now when you go back on the road, you'll have someone looking out for you, who I'm sure won't judge you if you stumble a bit. But, you have to tell him if you get that urge again, if you start falling again," her voice was so soft but so sure and firm.

"Yeah, I don't want to go through that again," he whispered.

"That's good, Dean. I'm proud of you." A shiver ran up his spine as those words left her lips. Goosebumps rose on his skin and he couldn't help the little shake that shot through his knees. The guilt was rising. "I should go get ready for my speech, but," Cas paused as she looked at him, something hesitant in her eyes. He could only imagine what expression he had on his face. "It was really good to see you, Dean." She tossed her cigarette on the ground and crushed it under her heel as she reached into her purse. It was a bittersweet feeling that ran through him when she pulled out two sticks of Peach flavored gum. She offered him one and he took it because he is weak. She didn't say anything else as she walked away, back towards the door where he had set the brick.

When Cas was gone, Dean fell back against the wall with a soft exhale, allowing the air in his lungs to rush out. His face fell with the closing of his eyes and he didn't realize how boneless he felt until he almost slid down the wall. He caught himself with a stutter, steadying his body on shaky legs. He brought the gum up to his nose and inhaled the artificially sweet scent. The smell of it sent a shiver through him, he felt utterly disgraceful shivering at the smell of a piece of gum, but he didn't have it in him to care. He slipped the stick into his pocket, beside his slightly crumpled pack of cigarettes.

With a deep inhale, he straightened out his suit jacket and started tucking his button up back into his slacks. His hips stuttered when he realized he was half hard, his eyes shutting as he stilled. He finished tucking his shirt back in, he ran his fingers through his hair, and stamped out his cigarette before walking back inside.

"You were gone awhile," Sam remarked when he sat back down at the table. Dean sank into his seat, pressing his hands lightly to his thighs, feeling the soft material of his slacks.

"Yeah, the noise was getting to me, I ducked out for a cigarette," he said with a nod of his head.

"Damn, I should have gone with you before the next speaker," Charlie said, her nose scrunching.

"Too late," Lisa gestured to the stage with a small smile. Dean looked over and steeled his expression as Castiel went waltzing on, effortless in her demand for everyone's eyes. He's absolutely positive that she doesn't realize the power she has over any room she walks into. Dean's view of her is obscured by Lisa moving her head and the guilt in his stomach makes him turn his head towards the table.

"Is that?" Benny's question goes unanswered as she starts speaking.

Yes, yes it is.

"Good evening, everyone, my name is Castiel,"

#Destiel #Dean Winchester #Dean Winchester x Castiel #Sub Dean #Dom Castiel #Female Castiel #Dom/Sub #Pining #Lisa Braeden #dean x castiel

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dirt-cup-draco · 4 years

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Harry x Reader- New Girl

Hey could you do a Harry Potter x reader fic, where reader doesn’t know anything about Harry Potter like the scar or anything but she is still a witch and Harry falls for her because she doesn’t know how famous he is

Your father had been given a promotion, one that had forced you and your family to leave America and buy some sleepy cottage in England that your mother demanded to have. You couldn’t deny that it was beautiful and exciting, yet you were lonely. To all of your fellow students you were an oddity. You spoke strangely, you listened to bizarre music, you ate strange candies and disliked their favorites. You just simply didn’t fit in.

It was easiest to fly under the radar, keep your head down and do well in your studies but even that was hard to do. You often found yourself traveling around the grounds of the school alone, admiring the beautiful castle that you had come to adore in an objective sort of way. There was no doubting that Hogwarts was a magical place.

You just wished you could make a friend.

You kept to the back as people chattered excitedly around you, Dumbledore at the head of the great hall, eyes scanning over his students with pride and amusement at the antics. The first trial of the Triwizard Tournament had just been completed and Hogwarts’ students were full of pride, the contestants being the only source of topic.

“Did you see how Cedric-” One hufflepuff chittered to her friend in excitement as she passed your table, her voice fading into the crowd as she vanished. You took a long sip of pumpkin juice and looked around, taking in the students you still hadn’t gotten to know yet.

Kids in your house weren’t cruel, in fact they were quite helpful, but nobody seemed to want to know you on a more personal level. They had nothing to relate to you with and once that barrier was up, they wouldn’t let it come down.

Even the festivities going on hadn’t been enough of a motive to befriend you and so you watched the tournament from the back of the stands, half paying attention to the two Hogwarts contestants that everyone seemed to go wild over. There was Cedric Diggory, a handsome Hufflepuff you had heard too much about to invest any interest in, and then there was another boy that seemed to be spoken about often. Henry Pots? Harley Peter?

“Harry’s brilliant on a broom!” You caught a Gryffindor exclaim from the seat, shoving a pumpkin pastie in their mouth.

“Potter just got lucky this time around,” A slytherin sneered, their voice floating up from the crowd, jealousy souring their voice.

Harry Potter! That was the boy that nobody got enough of. It seemed he could do no wrong, yet was always in trouble. A fan favorite of the students but a magnet for danger. You had yet to see what curse this boy seemed to drag along with him and you were grateful for it. Your mother had heard of the safety issues involving Hogwarts and it had taken your father a great deal to calm her down. Somehow, you doubted that a single teenager could cause so much strife. You were sure it was all rumors.

You weren’t interested in knowing the top dogs of the school. You didn’t want to be an outcast either, but you simply didn’t care about who you were friends with so long as you had someone. It had been a lonely few months and you grew more exhausted every day with sending cheerful letters to your mother about how great everything was going when in fact you were feeling miserable.

You didn’t need a Harry Potter or a Cedric Diggory. You just wanted to not be alone.

Harry peered into the darkness of his bedroom, fumbling for his glasses as he stepped out of his bed, drawing the curtains closed and tiptoeing to the door after grabbing the invisibility cloak from his chest. His mind was reeling and he needed some fresh air. The first challenge was still fresh in his thoughts and he couldn’t help but smile.

He had been chased by the horntail and come out on top! It was a rush of adrenaline that kept him wide awake during the late hours of the night. Harry was feeling quite proud of himself but he also wondered what the golden egg could possibly mean next for him. Admittedly, he still had a bit of a headache after releasing the clasp at the top. The shrieking from within had rattled his eardrums.

Maybe a walk would help him understand what to do next.

He easily waded through the halls, cloak secured around him, eyes and ears sharp in case someone was patrolling for kids out past curfew. Luckily, he had done this enough times that he could easily come and go without being caught.

Stepping onto the grounds, Harry let the breeze settle over him. The tension left his shoulders and let his feet carry him wherever they wished to go. He stalled however when he saw a figure in the distance, a lighter shadow against the inky sky that had swallowed the moon. It was hard to make out anything specific of this person and Harry felt his stomach twist, his heart thumping painfully.

However, his scar remained unresponsive and he took comfort in that. Nowadays, he felt like he had to look over his shoulder and keep his eyes peeled for any sign of danger. His name being in the goblet had been odd enough and he wasn’t looking forward to any more upsets.

Harry froze as the figure moved, rounding the curve of the black lake and coming nearer to him. He was tempted to keep his cloak on but then he caught sight of a friendly face, a face that he had been meaning to know.

Pulling the cloak from his head, he bunched it in his hands and began walking with a purpose. You, however, didn’t hear him. When he suddenly seemed to materialize out of nowhere, you jumped; a short scream getting stuck in your throat as you recognized him. He was a gryffindor in your year but that was as much as you knew about him. There was something familiar about him but you couldn’t quite put your name on it.

“Jesus Christ!” You hollered, hand flying to your chest as you stared at the teen with unruly hair and crooked glasses. “When did you- How did you-?”

“Been here for ten minutes, invisibility cloak,” The boy explained with an easy smile, holding the patterned cloak in his hand.

“You’re kidding me,” You gasped softly, taking two steps forward as your hands bunched in the material, pulling away quickly as you accidentally squeezed his hand. “Hogwarts makes me feel like I’m new to magic, Ilvermorny never had stuff like this,”

Harry smiled with pride, he had managed to impress you. It was rare that he wasn’t stumbling over his own two feet and wondering how to get someone’s attention. He had been wondering how to befriend you since he’d seen you on the train, whispers of your previous school spreading between students. Harry liked odd, he seemed to attract it, and to everyone else you were the definition of the word.

“Gift from my dad. Sort of.” Harry found himself explaining, eyeing the cloak.

“Sort of?” You asked, head tilted to the side. “So, what? You stole it?” Your voice was teasing and low and you had a mischievous glint to your eye that sparkled in the night.

Harry flushed and shrugged, surprised you didn’t know. “Erm, no. H-he was killed by Voldemort-” You didn’t even flinch, yet he could see your expression start to morph to something full of pity and embarrassment. “-Dumbledore held on to it and gave it to me,”

“I’m so sorry-” You began, eyes sad and bottom lip stuck out in a guilt-ridden pout.

“You didn’t know?” Harry had to ask, scratching the back of his head as you two stood still in the grass, the water of the lake pushed up against the sides of the earth it resided within.

“We haven’t met have we?” You questioned, eyes narrowed. You found this boy to be odd, his surprise at you not knowing his father’s fate was all around surprising. How were you supposed to know of such a tragedy? You were far from friends.

“No, we haven’t,” Harry said easily but understanding dawned on him in the form of a smirk. “You don’t know who I am do I?”

“Is that supposed to make you sound important” You shot back, eyebrow raised.

Harry fought with himself. He got the impression that you wouldn’t take kindly to him saying, “Im sort of a big deal seeing as I defeated the dark lord before i could even speak”. Instead he opted for, “N-No, I just know a lot of people and a lot of people know me. They probably know too much but I thought since you’d been here since the beginning of the year, you’d know too,”

“I don’t get around much,” You explained, shrugging your shoulders as if the weight of loneliness didn’t make it feel as if you were trying to raise cinder blocks up to your ears.

“Well then,” Harry said, fumbling to get his hand from his jean pocket. “I’m Harry, Harry Potter,”

You stuck out your hand, but paused halfway, mouth dropping in recognition. “The triwizard kid!”

Harry laughed. “I’ve been known as worse,”

You shook his hand, a smile on your face that he had never seen before. It was genuine and warm, yet a lot of perpetual surprise lingered- like you couldn’t quite believe you were having a conversation with someone. “It’s nice to meet you,”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Ilvermorny,” Harry teased and you groaned, rolling your eyes.

“I don’t think there is anything worse you could call me,” You grimaced. “Nobody cares to learn my name around here,”

“You didn’t offer it, I didn’t ask,” Harry shrugged and you were finding him quite strange, but no less pleasant. You were starting to understand why others so quickly believed he brought trouble. Yet, you didn’t mind it. He was refreshing and new.

“Y/N, you can call me Y/N,” You supplied. “Can I ask why you’re out here?”

Harry thought for a moment, taking a step forward. You followed his lead, the both of you falling into a comfortable pace as you walked around the grounds- having grown bored standing in place. Harry wanted to be moving and tiring himself out so that he could finally rest. “Mind if I ask first?”

Deciding you didn’t want to chance scaring off the only person you had gotten the chance to speak to thus far, you spoke first. “It’s nice out here. Helps me think when I cant sleep. And to be honest, it’s a bit odd sleeping in a room full of strangers,”

Harry’s eyebrows scrunched to the space between his eyes, his large glasses wiggling around on his nose. “You’ve had the same room since arriving, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” You meant to speak simply but it seemed he was confused. “I-I don’t get along well with the other girls. Well, with anyone if I’m being honest. I’m just the weird Ilvermorny girl, no one wants to know Y/N,”

“I come here to think too,” Harry offered after a moments silence. “And, for what it’s worth, I think Y/N is pretty cool,”

Your cheeks flushed and you couldn’t help the airy giggle that left you. You were certain that that was the first real laugh that anyone had been able to draw from you since the year began. Harry Potter was turning out to be much different than you had believed.

“Maybe next time I’m out here, I’ll run into you again,” You chanced, hoping that you would.

“Chances are good,” Harry smiled at your subtle proposition. “I don’t usually talk to friends when I come out here, but maybe I need to change that,”

Friend. The word rang loud and clear in your head and you couldn’t fight the grin that was present. Not much longer after, Harry said farewell and you returned to your dorm but it would be much longer until you were able to sleep. You were feeling optimistic, and you were quite certain that you had just made your first friend since arriving to Hogwarts.

Harry watched the sun rise from his spot leaning against a tree and even if hours had passed since you had gone to sleep he found that you were still on his mind. He sincerely hoped that you two would happen upon each other again. You were a rare treat in this school. Everyone knew him before he had a chance to know them. If he played his cards right, he’d be able to get to know you without anyone else planting stories in your head.

For the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, you weren’t just the new girl. And for the first time in his life Harry Potter wasn’t just the chosen one. Maybe, just maybe, you two could build a friendship that surpassed judgement and preconceptions. Maybe, you two could have something beautiful.

Tag List: @angelinathebook @thehumanistsdiary

#harry potter x reader #harry potter #harry x reader #ask #request #anon ask #harry x ilvermorny!reader #harry potter x ilvermorny!reader #fluff #the title comes from the fact that my sis started watching new girl again

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ramblingrachell · 4 years

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Have You Read This? The Election of 2020

Like many of us, I watched Hamilton on July 4th, 2020 – our nation’s birthday. I met the day with mixed emotions as the spirit and character of our nation as of late did not seem appropriate to celebrate.

As I watched the story about many of the nation’s founding fathers and first leaders unfold, I was struck by the parts of their personal trials and tribulations that went beyond their contribution to the nation. Hamilton was the first politician to be involved in a sex scandal; Layfette – an immigrant, unafraid to step in and become America’s favorite fighting Frenchmen; Washington – a slave owner willing to admit “it probable that I may have committed many errors;” Jefferson – gained wealth profiting from the work of slaves, one of which he fathered six children with after making her his mistress. Burr – the untried murderer of Alexander Hamilton, whom he killed while still holding office as the third Vice President of the United States. In short, a hot mess of moral contradictions. I have been listening to the Hamilton soundtrack ever since my first viewing on July 4th, and realized a number of lines in various songs could be strung together to reflect my perception (key word: my) of the current political climate. Over the last week or so, I finally sat down to string all of those poignant lines together (with a few liberties for relevant context), a lyrical short story I have dubbed, The Election of 2020 (seen further down, further down). The beauty of democracy that is reborn during election seasons is our ability to get a fresh start, gain new perspectives, correct past wrongs, and continually better this land of the free for generations to come. I saw a quote recently that described voting as not so much like trying to find the perfect partner for marriage, but rather like using a bus for public transport. Voting is a map of bus routes that you must choose from in order to get from point A to point B. There may not be one specific bus that is going to your exact destination, but that doesn’t mean you stay at home and give up on travel entirely. Voting is not about waiting for “the one” candidate who is absolutely perfect. Instead, you choose to get on the bus that gets you closest to where you want to be. I know and love many republicans and democrats that have used the privilege of voting to get us all closer to where we want the nation to be. To me, where we are right now does not seem to fit under either traditional party umbrella – no, it’s much more like an umbrella that has been turned inside out and torn apart by a calculated hurricane of divisive and selfish endeavors. Perhaps more than ever before, this is the time to reassess our voting bus routes that will get us from point A to point B. Are we moving from indifference to tolerance? Hate to love? Despair to hope? Chaos to consistency? Negligence to protection? Moreover, before you get on your bus of choice, remember the route is designed to get the whole of our nation where we want it to be. Not just for me and not just for you. For all of US – as in, all of the United States. We will never all agree, I know this, but in spite of these disagreements, I am reminded of the hope that comes from the story of Hamilton. Even 244 years into this nation’s story, despite many dramatic peaks and valleys, the journey to our shared, happily ever after epilogue lives on. It lives on in me, in you, and in every vote cast to get us where we want to be. Regardless of how your vote is cast, the courage to reexamine your route and get on that bus… well, that would be enough.

The Election of 2020

“America, you great unfinished symphony A place where even orphan immigrants Can leave their fingerprints and rise up We’re running out of time Eyes up Time's up Wise up He's not the choice I would have gone with History will prove him wrong Winning was easy for him Governing's harder Welcome, folks, to a dysfunctional administration! He stands only for himself It's what he does I can't apologize because it's true Have it all, lose it all The President is gonna bring the nation to the brink He’s the villain in our history Frankly, it's a little disquieting that so many are blind to this reality He doesn’t have an ounce of regret He accumulates debt, he accumulates power Yet in our hour of need, he forgets Ardently abuses his post It's hard to listen to him with a straight face Watching the tension grow He cannot be left alone to his devices Indecisive, from crisis to crisis Stay alive 'til this horror show is past We're gonna fly a lot of flags half-mast Chaos and bloodshed already haunt us How many died because he was inexperienced and ruinous? We're too fragile to start another fight Where do we draw the line? Someone oughta remind him We're running a real nation Him and his words, obsessed with his own legacy His sentences border on senseless And he is paranoid in every paragraph How they perceive him Let future historians wonder How he tore so much apart And watched it all burn I wish I could say what was happening in his brain He's not very forthcoming on any particular stances Ask him a question: he glances off, he obfuscates, he dances I will not equivocate on my opinion I didn't say anything that wasn't true His father's a scoundrel, and so, it seems, is this dude He is uniquely situated by virtue of his position Though 'virtue' is not a word I’d apply to this situation He seeks financial gain, straying from his sacred mission And the evidence suggests he’s engaged in speculation Why does he assume he’s the smartest in the room? Soon that attitude will be his doom He knows nothing of loyalty Smells like new money, dresses like fake royalty Desperate to rise above his station Everything he does betrays the ideals of our nation See how he lies Look at his eyes Follow the scent of his enterprise If we don't stop him, we aid and abet it Watching him grabbin' at power and kissin' it Somebody has to stand up to his mouth What do we stall for? If we stand for nothing, what'll we fall for?

Be careful with that one He will do what it takes to survive No one knows who he is or what he does His pride will be the death of us all God, we hope he’s satisfied This man has poisoned our political pursuits Destroyed our reputation I can almost see the headline, his “career” is done Ya best go run back where ya come from! This dude is out! You ever see somebody ruin their own life? History obliterates In every picture it paints It paints him and all of his mistakes It's him against us, the world will never be the same He better get ready for the moment of adrenaline Try not to crack under the stress When he finally faces his opponent They’ve fought on like seventy-five different fronts He smacks others in the press and doesn’t print retractions We're breaking down like fractions But when all is said and all is done I have beliefs, he has none Gotta get us out of the mess he’s got us in There’s a reason no one trusts him No one knows what he believes I get no satisfaction witnessing his fits of passion The way he primps and preens and dresses like the pits of fashion Our poorest citizens, our farmers, live ration to ration As Wall Street robs 'em blind in search of chips to cash in He’s askin' for someone to bring him to task While we were all watching, he got Washington in his pocket But the sun comes up And the world still spins I hear wailing in the streets There is suffering too terrible to name This is not a moment, it's a movement Are we a nation of states? What's the state of our nation? The issue on the table: We are engaged in a battle for our nation's very soul I’m past patiently waitin'. Let’s passionately smash every expectation For the first time, I’m thinkin' past tomorrow. We're gonna rise up - time to take a shot This nation better rise up Raise a glass to freedom Something they can never take away No matter what he tells us Look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now But we'll never be truly free Until those in bondage have the same rights as you and me Seek out injustice in the world and correct it Life doesn't discriminate Between the sinners And the saints It takes and it takes and it takes And we keep living anyway We laugh and we cry And we break But can l be real for a second? For just a millisecond? We gotta make an all-out stand Get him out of power So he holds no office We are a powder keg about to explode We gotta stop 'em and rob 'em of his advantages Let's take a stand with the stamina God has granted us We pick and choose our battles and places to take a stand We will fight for this land Summon all the courage that’s required Be a part of the narrative The story they will write someday How we emerged victorious Leaving the battlefield waving Betsy Ross' flag higher No one has more resilience Let’s move under cover and move as one We have one shot to live another day Don’t throw away this shot We will fight up close, seize the moment and stay in it And so the American experiment begins again We bleed and fight for the next generation We'll make it right for them If we lay a strong enough foundation We'll pass it on to them, we'll give the world to them For a strong central democracy We may never all agree, but There's only one man and woman Who can give us a command so we can rise up Throwing verbal rocks at his mediocrities What do you stall for? What was it all for? We studied and we fought For the notion of a nation we now get to rebuild Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness We fought for these ideals; we shouldn't settle for less I don't pretend to know All the challenges we’re facing But this once, take a stand with pride This is not the time to stand to the side Stand with us in the land of the free To get the people that we need to lead We need the votes We need bold strokes When there’s skin in the game, stay in the game We don't get a win unless we play in the game We may get love for it We may get hate for it We get nothing if we wait for it I wanna build something that's gonna outlive me I dream of a brand new start I want real leaders that can save the day We won't be invisible We won't be denied If we get this right The nation can start to move on It outlives us when we’re gone We are the one thing in life we can control We are inimitable, true originals We can’t stand still Or lie in wait We don't wanna fight, but We won't apologize for doing what's right Together we can turn the tide If we manage to get this right They'll surrender by early light We have no control Who lives, who dies, who tells our story But I know that we can win I know that greatness lies within us But remember from here on in History has its eyes on me and History has its eyes on you”

(All Lyric Credits: Hamilton: An America Musical. Performances by Lin-Manuel Miranda, Daveed Diggs, Renée Elise Goldsberry, Jonathan Groff, Christopher Jackson, Jasmine Cephas Jones, Leslie Odom Jr., Okieriete Onaodowan, Anthony Ramos Phillipa Soo, and Original Cast Company. Atlantic Records, 2015.)

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detective-redstar · 5 years

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Journal Entry N.02 || Chapter 1

|| This journal will act as a recap for everything that has happened during Chapter 1. This means there will be information that Airi would not realistically know. This is only for the sake of the recap. If you’re confused on who’s who, here’s a link to the roster page. ||

@despot-despair

It’s been some time, hasn’t it? A lot has happened since I last wrote in this journal. This may take a while and my wrist will probably hurt from writing this much, but I’ll survive~

I was able to get around and mingle with lots of people after we escaped that wretched dungeon! I have a sneaking suspicion not many of them like me. It’s a bit upsetting, to be honest :’(

However! I’m not the most hated person here, since Yuu decided to stir the pot even more. During our first conversation, which got rather heated, he threatened to rip my nails off. My beautiful nails! Thankfully, I escaped with all my nails in tact.

Apparently, he also got into huge shit with Hitomi and Ivy too. Yuu grabbed the rabbit girl by the ankle and started dragging her across the courtyard so he could dunk her into one of the ponds. Hitomi was there and, in an attempt to stop the local blue menace, hit him right in the neck with his gas tank. Ivy was freed, but I guess that encounter scared her pretty bad. Hitomi must’ve felt guilty too, ‘cause he stormed off the second Yuu was knocked to the ground.

That isn’t all. He also bullied Tsuguyo, the small origami artist, by giving her the same treatment of grabbing her to drag her along the grass. Apparently he was trying to throw her into the nearby pond. Only after Tsuguyo bit and threw rocks at him did he let go, due to being knocked half-unconscious.

Yuu’s honestly such an annoyance, and that means something coming from me.

A day or so passed and Raiouji announced that he prepared a feast for everyone. Some sort of welcoming party, maybe? Either way, it was far from welcoming, as the dinner quickly took a turn for the worst when the dead body of Sujaku was discovered underneath one of the serving domes. He told us that we needed to investigate what happened to the phoenix or face punishment, aka mass execution.

Safe to say, not many were pleased with that. But we had no choice, so everyone split up to investigate.

I had paired up with Kliment Holloway, the Clarinet Boy. All was going smoothly, when, in one of the stalls in the restroom, we found some graffiti that said “Airi x Koko best ship.” I still have no idea who wrote it. Kliment had absolutely no idea what it meant. At the time, I was disgusted. Funny how much my feelings have changed since then. I’ll... get to that later.

z̵̬̩̳̾͛̏@̸̫͉̠̼̭̪̇̐̉͊Ȇ̷̮̠̠̥̰ͅ@̷̡̼̝̫͍̔̏̀͗͑̉͗̇͘̚C̷̛̙̦̓̅̍͂̆̀̍:̴̬̜͓́̽̆̉̈́͐̎͗̈̈́͠͝]̷̢̢͔̲͎̻͍̩̲̱̝̘͆͗̽͊̌͐́]̵͔̬̦̑͂̂͛̾̒̃̋̒͘]̷̬̦̈́́̈́̏͛̊̇̑

In any case! We were going to have a trial. A trial for a robotic bird. It was a joke, so I treated it like one. To add onto the stupidity of this mock trial, Klim entered the graffiti we found as actual evidence. I wanted to die of embarrassment. Explaining what a ship was took forever, and I still don’t think he gets it.

The trial ended pretty quick - faster than any trial I had been to. Turns out Yunime stomped Sujaku to death because Sujaku had spoken ill of Raiouji. As stupid as it sounds, it was written in the rules that it’s forbidden to insult him. No one was killed for it, as Raiouji deemed Yunime’s actions as acceptable punishment.

In the end, we avoided execution and were to resume our lives in captivity. Mukuro, Sujaku’s mate, was pretty upset about the whole thing. Not sure why she’d stay loyal to Raiouji after that.

Raiouji, however, wasn’t going to sit around and just wait for a body to appear. So he prepared a motive - an incentive to kill. After gathering everyone in the foyer, what could only be described as the screams of the damned started blasting throughout the castle. Mukuro confirmed that it was Sujaku’s mixtape. Yes, his mixtape. It sounded awful.

Remembering what happened after that... really annoys me.

I made a joke. One simple little offhand comment about how Koko should die first. Then those witches decided to swarm me while pretending to uphold some bullshit justice. Sakura and Mari especially. Sakura hit me twice, yet she pretends to be some righteous hero who opposes violence. What a bunch of hypocrites.

x̶̢̡̰̻̜̪͇̝̠͇̥͇͖̓̍̇͊͘͝ͅ ̵̢̨̛͕̬̼̘͈̯͍̜̩̏̆̔͊́̑̋͜9̵̧̧̜̱͇͍͍̲̩͔͔͎̗̿̂̍̽̄͑͗̋͋̋͜2̴̛̦̫͗͂̆̾͛̉Ę̶̼͔͇̰̮͗̽̍̿̾̈́̿̈́̍͗͝6̵̩̭̱̻̈́ ̵̢͈͚̥͎̰͎́̐̈̂͑̓͒̆͗͜E̷͖̭̱̯̞̥̼̠̞̬͔̘̍̓̉͋̍̾̏̾̉̎̈͆͘̚͠9̶̡̙̪̘̺̯̙̯̪̰̱̏̕͘͘6̶̡̞͖̭̱̖͕̈́͊̋͆́̀̇͌͝͠>̶͙̩̯͉͍̹̜͍͉̺̟͊ͅ]̶̧̛͎͈̗̩͇̼̤̦͙̐̔̃̅̉͜ͅͅ

I was so mad and I had to get out there before I did anything reckless. So I left to the dining room, where I found Ivy looking downcast. She tried to comfort me, in a way. Ricky Boy was there too, but I’m sure he was only wanting to hear some gossip. He isn’t sincere in the slightest.

I cracked. I freaked out and told them about how I was going to make their lives miserable. I even snapped one of my nails off. Writing about it like this reminds me of how crazy I must’ve looked. Ricardo and Ivy panicked and took me to the bathroom to wash the blood off. Though Ricardo only came after I promised to give him what he wanted: that scalding hot tea. (I hate myself for writing that.)

Ivy retrieved a ribbon from her room and used that as a makeshift bandage. Honestly, I’m really grateful for it. I wouldn’t be able to stand having some ugly wound ruining my perfect appearance. Ricky left after we subtly threatened each other and that was the end of it.

I still haven’t forgotten though. Of the unfair treatment I received simply because I’m deemed the villain. Oh no, this was only the beginning.

Once the motive was dropped, there was tension hanging everywhere in the castle over whether or not someone would truly kill over this. Hitomi, %̷̨̢̍̔̅̃̕9̴̲͙̹͓̑6̵̭͇̯̊͐̈́ ̸̨̭̗̥̈͑3̷̛̻̘̘̬̋̎̓͜@̵̞͂̃͌̾͝@̴͔̼͕̞̙̓Ě̵̥̜͠ ̷̻͝=̴̛͈̀̇̿̕͝:̵̢̧̜̞̉͋̅͛4̵̭̻̻͇̯̱̍̅̌<̴͓͓̽͐͊̉6̴̟̜̰͈̣̄̏̂͘̚͝C̷̡͙͎̯̊ Sakura and %̴̩̥̖̌̈̀̾̚ͅ9̸̧̛̿̌͗6̴̩͙̘̣̈ ̶̠̐3̸̛̥̓:̸̢̺͔͙͎̓͜E̵̛̦̱̗̣͓͉͗͋̑̑̕4̶̤͖͙̳̗̼̊9̵͛͌̃̏ Mari tried to brainstorm some way of preventing such a killing from taking place. They created some rules to enforce - rules they never bothered to tell anyone else. Quite the oversight I must say~

Their plan failed.

But that’s enough about them! Time to talk more about me ★ And Koko. She’s pretty important to this equation.

If I could trace back a specific point in time which was the trigger for everything, it would be that fortune telling session Koko hosted for all who stopped by. I, of course, don’t believe in any of her garbage spirit talk, but I was interested in what she would say. I went second, after Gam, and I was given a rather positive reading. The reading itself wasn’t the start, but a simple comment meant to tease me. Koko joked that she was 0.1% attracted to me. I’m not sure why it bothered me as much as it did, but I was quite distressed over it.

Later on, I went to her room, Room 7, to confront her about it. Call it petty, but I needed to clear the air. We were supposed to be rivals! Everything changed with that single visit to her room.

Koko confessed to me. Koko had feelings for me. That Koko, who berated me and I insulted in turn. She liked me, for some reason I couldn’t comprehend. I kissed her, after she dared me to. I don’t think she expected me to go for it, since her face turned bright red. I’m sure mine was just as red, too.

We talked for a while. She gave me a name, her real name. Kotori, she said. Told me that she and I were quite similar. It opened my eyes. For the first time, I found someone who knew what it was like. Though it was slightly different, she knew. She understood. I had an ally and I couldn’t let her go.

The following event was one I honestly wasn’t expecting, even though I was the instigator. After getting into a slight argument with Cai Collins in the group chat, he challenged me to a fight out in the courtyard. Of course, I wasn’t going to back down. We met outside, with a few others watching.

I taunted him quite a bit, as he seemed hesitant to hit me. I know how to take a punch, so I wasn’t afraid of him. He did hit me, though it was only in the gut. That was when I decided to turn up the heat. I took a nearby rock and smashed it into my head, throwing it to Cai’s feet in an attempt to frame him. I passed out shortly after, so I’m not sure what happened between then and when I woke up. Kotori and Liya were by my side in my room, having patched me up. They told me my plan failed, as everyone believed Cai’s side of the story. I was really disappointed. Although, I took some satisfaction in knowing that I traumatized Cai-chan just a little bit. It was worth the concussion I gave myself. Does that make me a horrible person? Hahaha~

One night, I found a tarot card taped to my door. It was The Lovers, with some drawings on it. An apple and a star. Not a difficult riddle. I went out side and found Koko waiting for me. She said we were to stargaze for a bit. I didn’t quite understand, but I agreed. So we laid next to each other, looking up at the sky and talking about lots of different things. We kissed a second time. I believe that was the trigger for my own feelings to start bubbling to the surface, though I wouldn’t realize it until the next morning.

When I did, I needed to tell her. It was so early in the morning and no one was awake, but I needed to tell her. She didn’t seem surprised. Was it so obvious to everyone but me? I’m honestly a little embarrassed, but I’ve never had these feelings before, so how could I know what they meant!? In any case, we were now an official couple.

If only I knew that I would soon lose her.

The next day, we were met with quite the horrid sight. Ami Mochizuki, the SHSL Librarian, was found dead atop the chandelier. The killing game had started and we were to have a real trial after some investigation. I have to admit that, as a detective, I was a bit excited to expose the mystery behind this murder.

I did my investigation with Ivy, who was rationally upset and scared by the killing. She didn’t like to approach anything relating to blood or the body, which was fine by me. More investigation work for me~ I got to jump onto the chandelier, so that was fun! Ami was clearly stabbed with a knife, but the question was who did it and how the body got onto the chandelier.

The evidence we found wasn’t much, but it was all we had as we went into our first official trial with a real trial grounds. Though this one was different from those I was used to. We were all standing in a circle. I guess it was so we could see one another as we accuse each other.

The trial went on for some time as new evidence came to light. Ricardo had the room key to Ami’s room, and Yuu’s Primpod was missing. Both were suspicious, so they were two major suspects in the case. I even accused Ricky Boy. Hopefully he didn’t take it to heart~

The damning evidence was a piece of cheap gold found in the Treasure Room. I immediately knew who it belonged to and my heart had sunk into my gut. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t believe it!

Kokoro-koro was voted to be the killer. And it turned out she was. She killed Ami by stabbing her in the Treasure Room. Ami had apparently threw herself onto the chandelier. I have no idea why, but I didn’t care. Kotori was the killer.

And she was to be executed for failing to get away with her murder.

Before that, she had approached my podium. She gave me her final words, as well one to remember her by. I... I need to figure it out what it meant. It wasn’t a Japanese word. Kotori kissed me one last time, before knocking me out with a punch to the jaw... so that I wouldn’t have to see her execution.

Apparently it was rather horrible and depraved, one that humiliated her before she died. I’m glad I didn’t have to see it. I know I wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

When I woke up, she was gone. Kotori, the girl I liked and wanted to be with, was dead. I still struggle to accept the fact that she’s never coming back. I could never hear her voice or hold her in my arms.

I lost it. Consumed by my grief, I went off the deep end. To be honest, I don’t remember much of what I said. I know that I made a promise. A promise to bring everyone else here to their knees with despair. They took my happiness away and I wasn’t going to let them get away with it.

I will see it through. Until my heart stops, I will assure that I destroy everyone here, no matter the cost.

Signed, Airi Akahoshi

#journal #chapter recap #despot despair #chapter 1 #shsl detective

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labyrinth-of-headcanons · 7 years

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Yellow Flicker Beat

Summary: Ithnan had this one thing left to do. And he did it, but the past never stopped haunting him until the end.

Song: Lorde - Yellow Flicker Beat

A/N: Ah, I finally finished writing something for a friend. Feels good btw. I am sorry for the other people I missed out writing something for, but today is @ithnanss birthday and I just really wanted to do something for my friend, who I found through magi and we just kinda clicked! I am so grateful to be able to discuss the REALLY IMPORTANT TOPICS OF THIS FANDOM and also some of the unimportant ones with you. Thanks for writing me on a whim and then staying to talk to me >-< Also thank you for listening to my stupid input and answering the random questions I sometimes have lol. Really glad I have you to rant and cry together, so today I have something for you, which is a lot of things, especially rushed, unprofessional and a bit stupid, but when I asked you for your favorite songs the idea instantly popped into my head. So here I have a Songfic for you, I hope you can enjoy it, even thought it’s kind of based on your desire for more Ithan and my sudden motivation because of the song. Yeah. Happy Birthday, I hope you get to have a lot of cake and presents and that we can have more conversations in the future!

Writing Notes: This is an alternative happening of the night of the Mahrajan, not following the canon happenings at first, trying to capture a bit more of the inner conflict of Ithnan, who sadly didn’t get the attention he should have had. So I changed that, including feels and laughable English. But I think everyone is used to this by now. So please enjoy!

I’m a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm And the scars that mark my body, they’re silver and gold My blood is a flood of rubies, precious stones It keeps my veins hot, the fires find a home in me I move through town, I’m quiet like a fight And my necklace is of rope, I tie it and untie it

Looking down onto the festivities, Ithnan let out an unappreciative sigh. They were much too happy, much too exited in their little coming together. His pale skin being enlighten for a split second, he brushed some loose strands out of his face, only to put on his checker mask, the moonlight dancing over the golden parts, before being hid away by big, dark clouds. Soon enough there was no natural light coming from the sky anymore and when he pulled up the white mask, he too, wasn’t recognizable anymore. All there was left were the electric tension and the patient growling of the sky, keeping itself low as to not draw all the attention to it right away.

He was way too high up in the sky, but he figured they must have noticed it nevertheless, as the small ant-like people seemingly stored away the stalls and walked away from the festival. They didn’t knew what was coming for them, who was coming for them and yet they were cautious. If they would know the truth like he did, if they had seen it, would they still go to such a length of preparing themselves for the storm? Halting his thoughts he shook his head. There was no time for resentment, he had to concentrate.

Lowering his body down - even the great magician had to move out of the thunder’s way -, he set foot on the ground, hiding away in one of Sindria’s countless side streets, only some tiny little mouses witnessing his presence before scattering into their holes and niches.

The tension rose inside of him, the magoi he stored in his veins and muscles started to build up energy, preparing itself for it’s purpose, and soon enough it would be set free. Soon, but not right now. If it wasn’t for that reason, it would almost have been exciting to use his magic. But everything he enjoyed now came with a price. Even though he had paid for his own will long time ago, it still suffocated him even now. With every step he took and with every blink of his eyes he felt the price lacing itself around his neck, getting tighter and tighter, loosing up for a split second before cutting into his mind again.

People talk to me, but nothing ever hits home People talk to me, and all the voices just burn holes I’m done with it

Her voice in his head as he watched the flocks of humans returning to their homes, in a hectic as to not get wet from the uprising rain, but they were still laughing and joking around. How long had it been since he had laughed. Or joked around with his friends, fought alongside them. When was the last time he had felt alive, Ithnan wondered. Not even Arba’s words reached him anymore. Her believe and her will were nothing, empty words which he didn’t let into his conscience anymore and if he ever did, he just wanted to drown the memories, the promises and the actions, which still haunted him in his dreams, in his thoughts and in his heart.

But the thing right in front of him, well, he had to finish this. And if it was the last thing he did, at least it would stop the never ending war inside of him. Right?

This is the start of how it all ever ends They used to shout my name, now they whisper it I’m speeding up and this is the Red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart We’re at the start, the colors disappear I never watch the stars, there’s so much down here So I just try to keep up with them Red, orange, yellow flicker beat sparking up my heart

Smooth, almost gentle, were his steps. They had to be, if he didn’t want to get hurt by his own thunderbolts, crashing down onto the streets of Sindria. The sound of the occasional screams echoing in his ears, as Ithnan moved forward, channeling his body through the masses of running people. There was panic, chaos even. If not for the few dedicated generals, who were directing their citizens to safety, everyone would be lost in thunder and burning wood.

Ironic, Ithnan thought. Quite a few years ago it was he who would try to sort the chaos, rather than causing it. Now there was no one who would make him feel addressed, not even his name feeling like it belonged on the body he owned now. Still their faces made him remember the ones of his friends and comrades. No matter where he went and how much time passed, people would never change.

Picking up speed he clawed his way forward, the movements of his head becoming more and more hectic. By now they must have noticed his strange look, maybe even the magoi rushing out of him as more and more bolts of lightning formed on the dark sky. Ithnan realized how he got caught up in his thoughts again, as he had lost his aim in the bulks of people. He had to find the prince, quick. And especially without getting caught up again in his own misery or by the eyes of his enemies.

After one more shook of thunder, the magician lifted his head. In the distance he thought to have made out the person of desire, right when another dazzling bolt lit up the area, crashing down onto one stand, exploding and setting it aflame in seconds.

For a moment he felt anger boiling up in him, as he realized how he hadn’t calculated the lightness of his actions, literally. No one should have been able to see anything and yet, the tip of the spear was placed perfectly at his throat. Not surprising, Hakuryuu had trained himself quite admirably after all, Ithnan was barely able to take a step back, otherwise that deadliness would have meant his demise. Suddenly neither of them were bothered by the strike of lightning crashing down near them, leaving a shattering sound in their minds and blinding their eyes.

There it was again, that feeling of excitement rushing through his veins. And this time only, he let the smile, coming with it, creep onto his face.

I dream all year, but they’re not the sweet kinds And the shivers move down my shoulder blades in double time

Not even the sound of thunder echoed in his head anymore. It was quiet. Some would have said too quiet, but for Ithnan it was peaceful. His distraction had succeeded, even with the small incident that would have made for a big regret. But the prince was naive and the short moment of blindness was enough time to go and get into contact with him. It was almost too easy, the prince being already like a puppet with his fake limps.

Ithnan thought about himself as the puppeteer, as he floated in the nothingness of the space he head created for his personal use, lifting and sinking his fingers as if they had strings attached. Of course he was pleased, now that his plan succeeded. How could he not be? By now Solomon would have patted his shoulder, telling him how reliable he was.

Opening his eyes, Ithnan looked into the endless pit of darkness around him, fixating no specific point as he condemned himself for this thought. It’s not like he needed this recognition. It’s not like he wanted it either. Just why could he not stop himself from thinking about these things. These persons which no longer were with him. Why did they always come back, haunting him, making him feel lonely all of a sudden and leaving him trembling as they grew more, images and faces – terrible faces, burnt and pained – showing up in front of his inner eye. Suddenly this space was no longer comfortable. The suffocating feeling returned as he began to shake, heat rising and sinking constantly, fear and agony feeding away on him.

And now people talk to me I’m slipping out of reach now People talk to me, and all their faces blur But I got my fingers laced together and I made a little prison And I’m locking up everyone who ever laid a finger on me I’m done with it

Ithnan could barely hear Sinbad. Through the blurry vision he thought he saw the king’s mouth moving, but maybe that was just his imagination too.

Dying was not nice, he thought. Ithnan always believed it would be nice, more peaceful as his life until now. But it was disappointing to find out that it wasn’t. He felt a stinging pain in his back, his feet were barely sensible anymore and maybe it was the darkening magoi inside of him, but something appeared to be eating away his whole existence. It was a terrifying feeling at best. As if it wasn’t enough that he soon had to face another terrible person, no, before that he had to bear with the rest of his pitiful existence and the painful suffering. He knew what was coming for him and he knew it was himself who chose this ending. Hate was the last thing he consciously felt. Hate for all the people who made him into what he was, who manipulated him into doing these things and hate for himself, because if anything, he was the most idiotic of them all.

Coughing, his vocal cords wouldn’t make a sound anymore. As he breathed in for the last time, a certain lightness coming over him, Ithnan could hear himself talking in his head for the last time:

„I forgive you.“

Where he found himself, there was no pain. There was no sound, no breathing, no feeling and no regret. It was all and it was nothing, the beginning and the end. His light, colorful soul got no judgement and it neither felt sad nor happy. If anything it felt empty, but in a pleasant way.

While there were parts of him shattered on the world, when Sinbad crushed that little doll of his, Ithnan no longer felt anything of them. And it was right this way. For once he was content with things not going his way, suddenly everything he did was so meaningless. Funny, even.

The spirit next to him put a hand on his shoulder, it was saying something. The words were not understandable but Ithnan knew what it wanted. It was time to move on, they couldn’t stay at one place, they had to go with the flow. And then Ithnan opened what would have been his mouth, if not for the uncoordinated shape of his body, telling the other souls about his life on the world. Nothing he did was terrible, nothing was good either. But they listened intently and they asked things, made him tell more, review every detail there was. They told him that they were glad he was finally with them.

And as the sun rose over the ocean, dipping the flow of the rukh in the colors of its rays, letting them shimmer in all the red, orange, yellow tones it sent out, which were caught up in their translucent bodies, Ithnan told them just how glad he was, to be finally with them again.

And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat Sparking up my heart And this is the red, orange, yellow flicker beat

#Ithnan #Magi #magi: the labyrinth of magic #ithnanss #Admin #Magi Imagines #OW

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chewthepage-blog · 7 years

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Easy Dos and Don’ts to Improve Your Writing.

A perfect life is boring. Would you read three hundred pages about a character without flaws? No obstacles to overcome? Would you pay twelves dollars to see a movie where the main character breezes through the plot, everyone loves him and defeats the bad guy easily? Why not?

Why don’t we run to buy these kinds of stories? Isn’t this what we aspire to have for ourselves? I say at least not for our fiction, and those perfect characters should be burned.

There’s a life we wish we had and a life we want to read about.

Life’s imperfection is the perfect foundation for story building. If your plot is the meat then tension and conflict is the flavor. What’s a story without that resistance or pushback? You could go to the store, get some shopping done and go home. That’s a story. There’s a beginning, middle, and end. But is it a good story? Does anyone walk away relieved that everything went smoothly? Good news is better than bad news, but good news doesn’t keep you on the edge of your seat. What fills those cracks that creates interest in what’s going on? Let’s try a loose example:

Since we’ve established that going to the store and coming back is boring, let’s mix it up.

“Maybe you wanted to go straight home after work, but couldn’t put off grocery shopping anymore. There’s no coffee, you’re low on laundry detergent, there’s practically nothing to eat. It has to be today. You pass the exit you would normally take to go home and go two more to your usual grocery store. They don’t have your favorite coffee and so you settle for something lesser so you don’t have to make a second trip. You wait in line, the cold handle of the milk jug has a rough seam that presses into your hand. The register girl is smacking her gum as she rings you up, her hand on her hip as she bounces on a leg.

Maybe on the way home you get a flat tire. It’s a full blowout so the patch kit in your trunk won’t do you much good. Your dad’s words come to mind:

“You should put a spare in there, a patch won’t get you out of everything.”

Standing by your car, thumbing through your contacts, you try to call someone for a ride. No one is picking up. Cars are passing by and sweat is beading at your hairline as you shield your eyes from the setting sun.

A man in a white truck pulls up behind you. He can’t do much to help without a spare but he offers to get you to the next exit so you can wait at a gas station. It would be safer that way.

“Your choice.”

At this point, anything would be better than standing in the heat. You grab the gallon of milk from the backseat and climb into the passenger seat of the man’s truck.

“Thanks.” The man is friendly enough, trying to make small talk with you but conversations like that are doomed to die. You resign to stare out the window to watch the tree line down the embankment pass by. The milk in your hand is sweating in the heat, leaving a wet mark in your lap. A green sign passes in front of your eyes. You passed the exit. The exit is behind you. You need to get home.”

Maybe the man robs the station in a way that makes you look like an accomplice. Your face is on video and you have to run from the law with someone you don’t like. It’s a new pickle for the character. You could take this into many different paths. Do you want to be this guy’s accomplice or hostage? Is this the start of a life of crime or a fight to get home.

I am assumptious by using the “you” pronoun to try and force empathy. I wouldn’t do that normally but I wanted to illustrate a point. Was there a point at all that you began shaking your head or “noping out.” Maybe you thought to yourself “I wouldn’t do that” or “don’t do it” like many people who talk to horror movie characters.

Is it a comedy? A drama? Horror? Heck, a romance?

Is the man with the truck trying to save a loved one and turn to a life of crime? Is he actually a long lost cousin? Brother? Is he a murderous psychopath? Do whatever you want, but whatever you do, don’t bore the reader. Make them uncomfortable, gross them out, make them consider things they wouldn’t otherwise.

Maybe this is a comedy and the character’s life is perfect. There is value is setting up this scenario as long as you plan on ruining it very quickly. I would exaggerate the lifestyle of this person to make it too good to be true and make the character flounder a bit in the shift. Maybe he’s shocked that someone with a beard could be untrustworthy since Santa, Abraham Lincoln and their dad has a beard.

Back to bad writing. Sometimes recognizing what’s sour helps us appreciate the sweet.

When I was younger, as do many people, my characters and plots revolved around the wishful thinking of my youth. I like to think we’ve all written something like that. For example:

“The awesome life of Mason Gerkins by Jason Perkins.

PS: The main character is totally not me.

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Mason and he was going to school for the first day. He was nervous but his mom told him he would be okay and to study hard. He waited for the bus. When the bus came, he went on and looked for a seat to sit.

“You can sit by me.” Said Gatlin Green who was sooo hot.

“Thanks for the seat.” said Mason.

“Hey, that’s my girlfriend and seat.” Said Danny, who was a bully and dummyhead. “You don’t want to mess with me.”

Mason didn’t want any trouble and thought that maybe Danny was just having a bad day but he couldn’t move from his seat because it was against the bus rules.

Suddenly, the bus stopped and Gatlin Green’s books almost fell on the floor. Mason caught them all quickly with one hand and everyone thought he was sooo cool. Danny felt embarrassed.

In class, Gatlin Green sat next to Mason.

“Thanks for catching my books. You must be strong to catch them all with one hand.” Said Gatlin Green.

“You’re welcome. I do ninjutsu so my reflexes are pretty good.” Mason wanted to tell her his secret that he had to train so he could protect his family from assassins. Which is why he brought his sword in his backpack, just in case, but he couldn’t because he promised his dad it was a secret.

All of a sudden, assassins broke through the windows.”

You get the idea. I hope we all have something like that to look back on. I threw mine away long ago and I shouldn’t have. It’s good to read back on them for a laugh or a humbling experience. It’s not good, but it’s also not weird for most people to start writing that way. Authors can only draw upon the things they know. As a kid, I didn’t know much and had a selfish perspective as most kids go.

There’s the life we wish we had and the life we want to read about.

“Hey, that’s the kind of story I write now.” Then stop it. Don’t throw it out, but try something new. Using your new found power as the storyteller to make everything great is far from it.

Ask what were we missing in those days? It had assassins in it, middle school is relatable right? What more could you want?

Tension. I’ll say now that tension and conflict are not the same and we can cover it more in depth later on. For now, let’s say you can fight ninjas every other paragraph but without tension you’ll yawn through most of it. Unless your story comes with a hype-man it’ll be difficult to make repetition exciting. Ever been in the same room as two people argued? We’ll call that conflict. It’s in the open being resolved. Ever been in a room where someone wants someone else dead, but is acting civil? There’s might also be a gun in the room somewhere, but it’s hard to know. Tension is a conflict with mystery, like a battle under the surface of what’s being presented. An unseen snake in the grass. You know it’s there but no one is talking about it.

As the creator for whatever medium you present your storytelling, you have an incredible power but must walk a razor’s edge. At any moment of your drafting and revision stages you must determine what is too little and too much.

“Mason sat down on the bus seat, the cushion sighing from its seams. The seat was warm from the sunlight pouring in from the windows. The structure of the bench was sturdy, the support could be felt through the foam and faux leather construction. He tried to find a comfortable position, trying not to disturb the girl next to him. He lay his backpack in his lap, clutching it to his chest. He leaned against the back of his seat, his back would soon sweat as his body heat mixed with the sun’s heat through convection which is the tendency of hotter and therefore less dense material to rise, and colder, denser material to sink under the influence of gravity, which consequently results in transfer of heat.”

What are you doing? He’s just sitting! There’s no tension, the setting doesn’t seem important to the plot. All these details aren’t interesting enough and make the progression hang. Get to the good part! Don’t stall out your story by holding the clutch down or switching gears too slow.

I’ll gladly revisit these subjects as per request or as soon as I hit my general topics and pass again for more specific blogs.

You can make anything mundane into something far more interesting. Let that be a challenge. You can write it, vlog it or just try it verbally on a friend. I am also starting a podcast for those of us who like a good story, written or otherwise. If you have a good story (fiction or not), a weird dream, and want to share them- or anything really- copy paste it or link it and email it to me at [email protected]. I don’t click on strange or shortened links.

I’m also on Twitter under @ChewThePage if those are preferable ways to share.

https://twitter.com/ChewThePage

#writing #getgood #examples #chewthepage #dos and donts #improvement #fiction

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