Cameras Pt. 2
~Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader~
Word count combined for both parts one and two: 8277
PART ONE
Content warnings: smut, sexual content, breaking n entering, stalker leon, obsessed leon, dirty talk, degradation, praise, grinding, slapping, spitting, choking, hair pulling, biting, aggressive sex, very brief mention of wanting to slice reader open and climb inside her, lots of begging, blowjob, throat fucking, taking pictures during sex, fingering, p in v sex, creampie
!!!!!!MINORS DNI! GHOSTKENNEDY IS STRICTLY 18+!!!!!!
The water for your shower had been running for a few minutes now, but as you sat on the toilet seat, your mind was elsewhere. Jumbled thoughts and random flashbacks to the past 2 days were consuming you. You’d been home for two hours now and had yet to do anything at all besides think and think. But you had to shower and probably eat something eventually so you opened your phone and connected to your Bluetooth speaker, allowing your brain to get lost in the music. Maybe music could chase the thoughts away, maybe you could have a few minutes of peace.
You stepped underneath the hot water and let out a deep sigh. You let the water wash over your body and focus on the lyrics of the song blaring through the speaker. Slowly washing your body as you swayed to the music. You found yourself mumbling along to the lyrics of the song as you ran shampoo through your hair. All that mattered right now was the music and washing yourself. You’d never taken such a serene fucking shower, but things had gotten weird since what you’d discovered about Leon.
Leon. So much for sweet inner peace. You weren’t any closer to knowing what you were going to do about him. How could you even show your face around the office knowing he’s there? You can’t manage to force yourself to forget about him and trust me when I say you’ve tried. You’ve desperately tried to push the fresh memories to the back of your mind. As time goes on, perhaps you could forget about what happened; or at the very least the memories could become hazy and your brain wouldn’t be plagued with replays of Leon and his cock. How do you forget a cock like that? Now you’re thinking about his cock again. You’re supposed to not be thinking about his cock. Stop thinking about his cock!
You finished washing yourself off and stepped out of the shower, wrapping yourself up snugly in a towel. You wiped the fog off the mirror and stared into your reflection. Why was this happening to you of all people? Maybe it wasn’t you specifically after all. It could just be a thing for Leon. He picks someone to obsess over until he’s bored and then moves onto the next fixation. He definitely knew what he was doing with the obsessive stalker shit. He could eventually move on and then you could move on as well. Now that you know about him, he could lose interest in you.
God, you really hoped that wasn’t the case. You hope that isn’t the case? Why the fuck would you hope that’s not the case? This isn’t healthy at all. You hate the way the whole situation is making you feel. Well, hate is a very strong word and Leon doesn’t deserve to be associated with such a word. Uncomfortable? Nerve racking? Uneasy, tense, disturbed? You couldn’t think of a word to describe it. Exhilarating? Intoxicating? Maybe you loved it. Maybe a part of you hated it and the other part, a much bigger part, absolutely loved it in every way. Nobody or anything had ever been so devoted to you. Infatuated with you.
You’re one mentally ill human being. You shook the thoughts from your head as you made your way out of the bathroom. Dinner and some good sleep should help clear your mind. Your thoughts could be factory reset by the morning and you’ll be able to go about your day as if everything is normal. Welcome to the state of Denial, you’ve officially entered. Enjoy your stay with us and please come again. You’re losing your mind, you’ve gone mad.
Upon entering your living room, you came to an abrupt halt. Your heart felt like it almost fell out of your ass and your muscles all tensed up as if preparing for impact. “What the fuck?” you yelled out, “What are you, the fucking cat whisperer?” The man on your couch just chuckled, not even looking up from the book in his hands. One of your cats was cuddled up against his leg and your other cat was on the back of the couch cuddled into his opposing shoulder. “What are you doing here? Is that my book?” you asked Leon.
He shut the book and laid it down on the other cushion on the couch. He looked up at you and replied, “You should really read the next chapter, things are really starting to heat up.” He talked so casually, as if nothing was out of the ordinary. All you could do was stand in place staring at him, eyebrows furrowed together. You didn’t know what to say, what to do, what to make of this situation. “How was your shower?”
You cocked an eyebrow, “Good. What are you doing here?”
“We have things to discuss,” he motioned for you to come closer to him, but you refused to move. “Come. Here,” he demanded and you shook your head at him.
“You couldn’t knock?”
“Why would I knock when you know I can just come in? Sounds like a waste of time to me.”
“Because you don’t live here! You could be a nice guy and respect boundaries, although it’s obvious you aren’t very good at that,” you shot him a dirty look and all he did was laugh. Comes into your place unannounced, scares the shit out of you, and he has the audacity to laugh at you. You two stared right at each other. An unspoken staring contest taking place between the two of you. You broke eye contact and sighed, slowly making your way over to sit next to him on the couch.
Leon had other plans, quickly darting his arms out to intercept you. He easily maneuvered you to straddle his thighs, causing you to let out an embarrassing shriek.
“Leon, what the fuck? I’m basically naked! Let me go,” you exclaimed and tried to pull away from him, but he just held onto you tighter. He wrapped his hands around your back and pulled you even closer to him.
“Oh wow, I thought you were fully dressed under your towel. My mistake,” he smirked as you gave him the deadliest stare you could muster with flushed cheeks. “Have you gone all shy on me? But you displayed everything so nicely for me in those photos,” which caused you to avert your eyes away from him, staring at the cushion underneath you.
He grabbed your chin and brought your face back up to his and you couldn’t help but finally take in his appearance. He was wearing a button up shirt with the top few buttons undone, exposing the light hair on his chest. The sleeves were pushed up above his elbows, extenuating his huge biceps. He could wrap that bicep around your throat, slowly drain the life from you and you’d die a happy little content slut.
You brought your eyes back up to meet his, but his eyes were wandering elsewhere. His eyes looked across your exposed collarbones, down your arms, exploring the valley of your exposed thighs on either side of him. His eyes devoured you in a way that sent chills down your spine.
He finally met your gaze and you didn’t give yourself time to think before your right hand was raising up to his cheek, gently rubbing it. “You’re a fucking creep,” you said, your eyes never leaving his. Both your hands tangled up into his dirty blond hair as you continued, “What kind of a person breaks into someone’s house and jerks off with their panties? You’re a freak of nature. They should study people like you. What’s wrong with you?” He ground his hips up into you and you could feel his hard cock rubbing against you.
You pulled his hair as he brought his mouth to your ear, nibbling gently on the lobe. You had to fight back the moan that threatened to spill past your lips. He brought his mouth right up against your ear and spoke, “What kind of slut gets turned on by such behavior, huh?” You slowly start grinding yourself against his jeans, your exposed cunt making contact with his covered cock. You pulled your hands away from him, causing him to pull his mouth away from your ear and lean back so he could look at you.
You don’t know what came over you, but you pulled your dominant hand and slapped him as hard as you could across his face. “Anyone turned on by what you do is fucking deluded,” you told him as his hands pushed your towel up past your hips. His hands gripped so tightly into your hips you knew there’d be marks. You felt like your pelvis might snap in half between the pressure of his hands, but fuck did it make you so uncontrollably wet.
“What was I supposed to do? The second I laid my eyes on you I couldn’t think of anything fucking else. I was jerking my cock what seemed like every hour for weeks after meeting you. I tried to stay away, but I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted to slice you open, climb inside your body, and fucking live there. But I obviously can’t do that, so I climbed inside your house, surrounding myself with your things, learned everything there was to know about you, so at the very fucking least I could be inside your mind,” he said as you two grinded into each other like your lives depending on it.
He continued, “I watched you install your stupid cameras and do you think I gave a shit? I put on a show for you so that I could overtake your fucking mind like you did mine. I’ve been watching you for so long, I knew you were a depraved, needy whore. I knew if I showed you the truth it’d make your little pussy wet. You were made for me, fuck, just look at you.” He grabbed the back of your hair and yanked your head back. You couldn't contain it anymore, his words working you up more than you could stand.
Whimpers, gasps, pants, moans, sounds you’d never made before in your life were falling from your lips as you continued getting that sweet friction against your weeping cunt. His hand left your hair and pulled your towel completely off, baring you completely before him. He took one of nipples into his mouth and sucked intensely, like he was a dying man and the only thing keeping him alive was his mouth on your body.
As he sucked on your breast, his eyes rose and stared back into yours. This sudden urge came over you and you let saliva pool in your mouth before spitting it out on his cheek. He stopped the assault on your breast and looked at you with a shocked expression on his face, trying to comprehend what you had just done to him. “You disgust me,” you said before he quickly wrapped his hand around your throat, completely cutting off your air.
Your hand quickly shot up and gripped onto his. You weren’t trying to pull his hand away, oh no, you held his grip tighter. Your reflexes were kicking in, your mouth fell open as your lungs tried to suck in any air they could. Your eyes were rolling into the back of your head, but that didn’t stop you from feeling Leon spit right into your open mouth.
“Fucking look at you taking whatever I’ll give you. You’re a filthy whore and you can’t even help it. You sit here and call me all sorts of names because you love my obsession with you,” he spoke as your face felt on fire and numb at the same time. He let go of your throat and you began to greedily suck in the air you’d been deprived of.
Grabbing you by the shoulders, he pushed you onto the floor on your knees as he stood before you, undoing his belt and jeans letting them fall down until he was just in his boxers before you. Your vision cleared as you looked directly at his hard dick through his briefs. You could see the growing wet spot on them from his precum as he brought his hand to his bulge and started rubbing himself through his underwear.
You looked up with pleading eyes, hoping he’d understand what you so badly wanted to give him, but understanding is not what you got.
“What is it, baby? Is there something you want? We have to ask for things when we want them, that’s a concept you’re familiar with right? Or are you just a stupid slut who expects me to give her whatever she wants without having to work for it, hmm?” he said, the pace in which he was rubbing himself picking up. You whined, maybe he would give in and just let you take him without having to speak the words out loud. He just stared at you, waiting.
You cleared your throat and forced out the words, “Please, can I please suck your cock? I need to taste you so bad, please. Please sir, please fuck my mouth like you deserve to.” Once the words came out you couldn’t stop them. You needed him so badly, all you could do was helplessly beg. “I’ll be so good, I’ll do whatever you want from me, just please let me take your cock. Let me show you I can be good. Let me show you how well my throat can take it,” you continued begging and almost started drooling as he slowly pulled his underwear down, letting them fall to his ankles.
You looked up at him, asking for permission, “May I, sir?” He ran his hand down your scalp, bringing it down to your cheek and massaging it underneath his palm. He suddenly pulled his hand away before a sharp slap met your cheek that had your brain going foggy. The pain spread through your face, causing your jaw to fall open in a groan.
Leon took this opportunity to shove his cock into your mouth, your attention grabbed immediately as your lips wrapped around him. You let out a moan as the taste of his precum flooded your mouth. The pain from the slap mixed with his taste had your eyes rolling back into your head as you sucked him in as hard as you could.
Leon’s head fell back in pleasure as a moan of your name fell from his lips. You pulled his cock deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat to spur him on. Your hand wrapped around the base of his cock, pumping him while you took his cock as deep as it could go in your throat. The sheer size of his member still blew your mind despite seeing it over camera twice. Nothing could compare to him being right in front of your face.
One of his hands tangled in your hair as the other one fiddled with something behind him. “Hey,” he said, grabbing your attention away from the work you were doing on his cock, “You can say no, okay?” You raised an eyebrow questioningly as you didn’t know what he was trying to say. He pulled up your Polaroid camera and it started coming together in your brain. You whimpered realizing he wanted to take pictures of the two of you together.
The idea rushed feverishly through you and straight down to your cunt. You’d never thought of taking pictures in the act. You both knew you’d taken plenty of pictures alone, but the thought of doing this with Leon and having the pictures for both of you to hold onto? You could feel the arousal pooling down your thighs as you nodded your head once to let him know to please continue. He smiled down at you, “Atta girl. Put on a show for me and I’ll make it worth your while, yeah?” The hand still held in your hair pulled tightly, causing you to close your eyes as you kept up your work on his cock.
You lost yourself in pleasing him. Giving him pleasure gave you pleasure as well. The way his cock stretched your mouth around him was heavenly. He was thrusting into your mouth, pushing himself down your throat. Tears were pouring down your face, but you didn’t want him to stop. You loved feeling like this, loved when your mind went foggy as he used you.
“Look at me,” he suddenly demanded. You looked up and your eyes immediately looked into the camera as he snapped a picture of you. “Fuck, such a good girl. So good for me, your mouth is, fuck, fucking perfect,” he whined out. The sound was pure sex, causing you to moan around his dick.
“You want me to fuck you? You wanna take me into your slutty cunt, huh?” he asked you as you pulled your mouth off his cock sucking in a deep breath.
“Please, please. I want you to fuck me so bad. I want you to use my pussy until you cum, sir,” you were once again pleading for him. You couldn’t find shame within you anymore. Your need heavily outweighed your pride. And knowing he liked you like this? You wanted to give yourself over to him whenever he wanted, however he wanted.
He walked around you, pushing you forward so that your chest was laying on the cushions of your couch, knees still on the floor as he spread them wider before him. You looked back at him just in time to see him take a picture of you bent over for him. After the photo was pushed out of the camera, he brought the device closer to your sopping pussy and took a picture of how wet and needy you were for him. He sat the camera down and started kneading both his hands into your ass cheeks.
Leaning forward he kissed your shoulder as one hand slipped down between your thighs and rubbed your clit gently. He ran his fingers up and down your folds before sinking a finger into your wet heat. You couldn’t help but whine at this point. You were so worked up, you could’ve taken his cock immediately, but you were also too worked up to be able to voice this. He slid another finger in as you let out a long, high pitched moan.
“Are you ready for me, baby? I need to feel your pussy around my cock,” Leon asked you as you nodded your head as fast as humanly possible. He chuckled at your neediness before slowly pulling his fingers out of you and bringing them to your lips. “Here, be a good girl and clean this up for me,” he could barely finish his statement before you were sucking his fingers clean of your juices. He let out a deep moan as his other hand pulled back and smacked your ass hard.
He wrapped his hand around his cock and rubbed the tip against your wet hole, causing you to instinctively push yourself back, trying to take his cock. This earned you another smack on your ass. You moaned as you arched your back from the pain. Leon took this opportunity and slammed himself all the way inside of you, which had you unintentionally biting his fingers that were still being held in your mouth. He moaned at the way your teeth dug into his fingers before pulling them out and running his hand down your back.
You turned to look at him, begging, “Please move Leon, I need it so bad. I need you to fuck me, please please please please.” You couldn’t help but move your ass around to get some sort of movement within your pussy. You were so desperate, you couldn’t wait any longer, you needed him to fuck you until you couldn’t remember your own name.
“Shhhhh,” he whispered as he wrapped his hand around your throat, pulling your head back to rest on his peck as your back arched even further for him, “I’ve got you sweet girl.” He finally, finally, started moving and moans were already falling from your lips uncontrollably. “That’s it, you take me so well. Gonna make you feel so good,” Leon praised you. He had completely switched from the degrading way he spoke to you earlier and the praise had you melting beneath his touch. Your walls flutter around his cock in approval.
His pace picked up as he ruthlessly began pounding into you. You were uttering incoherent phrases at him as the pleasure was coursing through every nerve in your body. Leon leaned forward and buried his head in your neck, letting loose the most pornographic moans you’d ever heard. You didn’t know what was giving you more pleasure, the way he was fucking you or the way he sounded.
You pulled your hands from where they were gripping the couch and wrapping them behind you, tangling his hair in your fingers as you pulled his mouth to yours. The kiss was messy and loud, moaning as your tongues clashed together desperately trying to feel every square inch of each other. Leon’s hands released their grip on your thighs and ran them up to your stomach until he reached your breasts, where he rubbed your nipples between his fingers, further driving you crazy.
You felt yourself slowly climbing that mountain, heading towards release, when Leon’s movements suddenly stopped and he pushed your chest back into the couch, pressing you into it with both hands. You were whining and pushing yourself up and down his cock while he held you in place. “That’s it, fuck yourself with my cock. You look so good like this, so fucking needy,” Leon barely formed the words together as he got lost in the sight of you. He rested his hands lazily on his hips, holding himself up as you forcibly fucked back onto his cock.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, please fuck me. I’m so close I need you to fill me up, please,” you begged, wearing yourself out from your movements, hardly able to catch your breath but unrelenting in your need to cum.
Leon gave into your request, pushing his hands into your back, holding you in place as he ruthlessly fucked into you. He let out a loud moan before speaking, “Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Cum with me sweet girl. I want to feel you cum around my cock.” You couldn’t formulate a response, but after a few more hard, sloppy thrusts you were screaming Leon’s name and all sorts of profanities as you came.
After feeling you squeeze his cock so tightly, Leon was cumming deep inside your pussy. Thrusting into you through his orgasm, pushing his cum further inside of you. Your knees gave out beneath you, but Leon was quick to grab your hips and hold you up. He slowly slid his cock out of you, taking in the view of his cum slowly dripping down your thighs. If it was possible, he would’ve cum again at the sight alone.
He helped you turn over and lay on the floor right beside your couch as he laid down right next to you. You were tightly sandwiched between the couch and coffee table with him, but you didn’t mind. You wanted to be as close to him as possible. You rolled onto your side and threw your leg and arm over him, chin resting on his shoulder. He turned to look at you, catching your lips in a slow, gentle kiss. It was a sharp contrast to how you’d just been moments ago and it would’ve given anyone whiplash, but to you both it made perfect sense.
Leon pulled away and spoke softly, “There’s only one thing I’m not sure of. Why’d you get the cameras?” You let out an airy laugh and were about to speak when you were interrupted by a loud crash in the kitchen, followed by one of your cats zooming through the living room and into your bedroom away from the noise.
“What the fuck was that?” you yelled, whipping your head towards the kitchen. “That’s why I got the damn cameras! Between the cats, and apparently you, I was beginning to believe I was living with a poltergeist.”
Leon laughed before speaking, “Hey, I’m careful. That’s all on them or the poltergeist.”
~masterlist~
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ill kiss you if you write prompt 21) You need help tying the back of your dress/fixing your cufflinks, and my fingers keep scraping against your skin. How are you so warm? And how are you acting like I’m not right behind/in front of you? with old money!steve <3
old money!steve harrington x fem!reader + you need help tying the back of your dress/fixing your cufflinks, and my fingers keep scraping against your skin. how are you so warm? and how are you acting like i’m not right behind/in front of you?
warnings: very brief feelings of inadequacy from the reader at the end. childhood friends to lovers. totally inspired by joe keery's outfit at the critics choice awards.
Watching Steve simply exist in your small, one room apartment will never get old.
He's sitting on the lid of your toilet, right next to your bright floral shower curtain, and the silly artwork of a bunch of dogs in a bathtub you had framed right above it. Your friend looks even bigger, and taller, in your cramped bathroom, but right at home with your perfumes and lotions and trinkets.
The unusual touch was the suit he was wearing, which was probably worth more than a whole year of rent. The dinner jacket and the dress pants fit perfectly, the white dress shirt underneath hugging his broad frame, a couple of buttons undone to show his chest, adorned with a simple silver chain.
You weren't supposed to look, but your eyes wandered anyway. They wandered through his body, through his face, the slope of his nose, the freckles smattering his skin.
You couldn't help but feel guilty, at times. Steve had been like a sibling to you, the son your mother never had. The Harringtons’ kid, the one she babysat during the week and brought you with her to their big house, too big and too empty for your liking, even as a child.
The two of you played together in their living room, avoiding all the expensive furniture and his mother’s art collection, as your mom would make dinner in the kitchen. You'd spend the summers in their pool, chasing each other with water guns and noodle floaties. You, because you had nowhere else to go, and Steve, because he'd rather be home than travel with his squabbling parents.
Years had passed and nothing really changed. You still hung out and spent the summers together, but you saw Steve through different eyes. No longer the overconfident little boy who likes to hold your hand while you ran and challenge you to do stupid things just to make him laugh, but the man he had become.
Still confident, but earnest and caring. Sweet, even, on his best moments. Your Stevie, your best friend.
Steve, who's now currently watching you go in and out of your bathroom, applying the finishing touches on your makeup, and squeezing into the red dress he'd brought you, while he complained about his college friends.
You chimed in from your bedroom, “They can't be worse than Tommy and Carol, at least.”
He scoffed. “Well, the bar is in hell, then!”
Holding the front part of your strapless dress to your chest with one hand, you prop yourself to the door frame with the other. “I'm glad you finally realized. Now, zip me up, pretty boy.”
If you hadn't been blunt, you'd lose your courage. You'd been trying to close the dress yourself in your room, panicking over it, but realized you wouldn't be able to do it alone. You need another pair of hands, and they're right there.
You miss the blush rising on Steve’s cheeks, after you turn around. It doesn't take long until you feel him standing behind you, the warmth from his body rising a chill up your naked spine. His fingers trail your back first, trying to tickle you.
Slapping his hand away, you chastise him, but you're warm all over now. “Stop, you idiot! We're already late.”
“Sorry! I'm sorry.” Then, he catches your zipper between his fingers, and slowly moves it up, up, up until it's secure at the top. You can still feel the back of his fingers trailing up your back when it's closed, and he puts his hands to your shoulders, moving you to stand in front of your bathroom mirror. “There. The prettiest girl at the party.”
“We're not even there yet. Don't get your hopes up.”
“Well, I know you will be.” He hugs your waist, setting his hands on your tummy, and resting his head on your shoulder. Looking at the two of you in the mirror, you could almost be mistaken for a couple. Young and in love. You sigh.
“You know I'm hardly plus one material, right? I don't… I don't really belong there.” You raise your hand to his hair, messing it up a little. The silver bracelet on your wrist glints in the fluorescent light.
“You belong wherever I am, with me.” Steve’s smile is almost sad on the reflection. “Don’t overthink it. It’ll be over before we know it, ‘kay?”
“‘kay.”
The phantom feeling of his fingers on your back stays with you all night, even when they're intertwined with yours, and even when they find your thigh under the table, as Mr. Harrington gives his guests a speech.
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INSCRYPTION SWAP AU PT.1
i am slightly afraid to be made fun of PLEASE JUST LISTEN FOR THE FIRST PARAGRAPH AND THEN SCROLL IF YOU DONT WANNA READ IT ALL. this is impulsive so expect me to be silly crazy
leshy ---> tech
p03 ---> nature
grimmora ---> magic
Mags ---> death
Why in this way you ask?
Well leshy and P03 oppose each other the most and it felt natural, Still at odds and also keep their personalities. I feel like grimmora and mags would switch though is because death is a very real thing, but magic is fantastical and actively tries to stop death. Grimmora would also be able to keep her more happy attitude with realism with magic as its more of system/skill. Mags would take death and the undead pretty good as well because. bro is just a lil insane all around. Also consider a skull army that he wont stop lying to and say they'll come back to life eventually. OK PAST THIS POINT IM GOING TO GO MORE IN DETAIL BUT THATS THE BASIC IDEA GO AHEAD AND USE/CHANGE TO YOUR LIKING IF YOU WANT, JUST GIVE ME CREDS IF ITS LIKE EXACTLY THE SAME. if you make it your own then you don't need to cred, idc this idea is like really basic imo.
L3sh, Scybe of Technology.
He's still stoic and very immersed in his world, However now with a new technological theming. He makes sure to have the player learn about the intricate details of the tech they use. He's kinda like a happy old I.T. guy, Using all of his tech to its max potential. Its very early and traditional 60's and 70's era stuff, Whereas P03's was futuristic 80's. He tries to make sure that it can be easily grasped for most however most 60-70's tech is just a mess no matter what. He made all his limbs wires that can extend and compress, Expand and slim. So yes he is tall and muscly but also no bro is bobot he aint got shit. This also applies to his hair that flows all the way down his back but he usually doesn't mess with it, In fact the wires there probably aren't even connected to anything he just thinks they look neat. apart from occasionally oh you know. Tearing people apart to try and 'give them a fair playing ground.' he's normal i swear you guys.
ON P0LRIOD/L3SH X phoe
Yes they are still divorced. The same reasons, L3sh is neglectful at times and Phoe can be an asshole. L3sh can be too logical as well and has a rule of 'If you can, So can I. If I can't, then you'll never.' Which can be really degrading sometimes. He would even consider himself better than Peo at times, If not barely an equal. Leshys capability mixed with P03's cockiness makes an occasional asshole. They probably got divorced bc of L3sh's murder experimentation problems and also going weeks on end ignoring Phoe. Bro just check on your husband please.
Unsure of how he makes cards yet, So heres a few options!
-He makes his cards by taking parts of you and tech-ifying you. Your mind isn't necessarily required, As long as he's got like an eyeball and a leg you're fucked. You get transferred once he's finished by 'rewiring and applyinh new hardware upgrades.'
-He still takes a picture, however. its a literal copier. like a fucking business copier but bigger. You know the ones, that are all chunky and shit and have like only 3 buttons and are barely hanging onto life. then you get sucked into the card. This one might be my favorite out of pure hilarity.
-He consumes you with those wires that act as his hair, And then meticulously rips out the most important/cherished parts of yourself out before turning into a card that exits out of his chest plate. This is the most personal out of the options here. and possibly sexual now that i think about it? Have fun dying i guess
anyways ill repost this with the next parts when im done goodbye i am going insane💖💖
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alright good morning. Ive had some time to sleep. review. and ill be booting up vlr in a few moments to hopefully finally finish the game.
before i do here's my summary of thoughts as we stand
im not actually clear on what the resonant event was that allowed akane to know to recreate the whole of the ambidex game
speaking of akane, uh 999 characters! we heard from clover about snake, who is presumably dead as the ambidex game takes place, (thats why she couldn't contact him) as is assumably Lotus and Seven. Hopefully Ace too. Junpei, Akane, and Clover are all accounted for. Which just leaves Aoi? Like... Clover made it clear they were running together. And Aoi's still an esper so like. Where'd he go. if Akane was doing all this shit then where's Aoi
Phi. just. all of her really. but in paticular like I know us being on the moon justifies her stunts but like. does no one else jump.
i kind of wish tenmyouji had a bigger reaction to seeing akane when she came out of k's suit. just a bit.
Also, with everyone having had Radical-6 the whole time i call bullshit. I mean like. in theory and a lot of the explanation its a really good explanation and it works quite well. EXCEPT FOR ONE THING. two things actually! Alice and Quark. Who both. get Radical-6 during the game depending on the route.
Neither of them would be lying about it or what they were experiencing. And if it was just the mania part, then i could see it as progressing in them faster than everyone else, but NO. Alice specfically says in her route that it felt like everything around her sped up like it was being fast forwarded. If her processing is already slowed down to the root of one sixth or whatever the math is then how does it get slowed down to the root of one sixth of the root of one sixth??? or what??? huh?? and then the cure works on her like. is she DOUBLE infected?? same for quark!! Explain!
Luna's necklace remains a mystery. Who gave it to her.
Time paradoxes. Lets talk about time paradoxes okay cause first off.
in vlr as we play it clearly the plan did not succeed. and if it does work (which. whats the plan anyway beyond 'we're going to brain slingshot phi and sigma to the past'. like even if we get old sigma to the past what's he gonna do. but putting that aside, the goal would be to change the world so that hings dont explode and i think stopping radical 6 from getting out as well. which. yes this is a good idea.
and if we do it: at minimum 3 characters from vlr die? in some capacity. Luna and K just. Cease to exist. Because Sigma will never create them if he doesn't need to use them to make the nonary game. Quark also likely ceases to exist, or if he is born his life is so different he's essentially a different person. Sigma himself will probably be fine, but he'll be himself as he remembers at the beginning of the game (22 yr old sigma), God knows about Phi, Clover and Alice will probably be better off, Jury is out on Tenmyouji.
like even if we like. time teleport luna's brain on a flashdrive or something, the rest are screwed.
fuuuunding. just in general.
but i think in the end theres just like. one question that really matters to me. Even if nothing else gets solved I just wanna know
Is there really any world where everyone can make it out alive?
we continue playing.
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Rat friends are forever friends.
I had an interesting dream last night. The details have gone a bit blurred on me after waking, but the essence of it was … a con? I think a con, I can’t quite remember what the intended/promised result was going to have been. I don’t remember how it started or what was meant to be gained by all involved. I just remember how it finished.
Three conversations, that the … character, I suppose, that I was inhabiting … had with the other three erstwhile members of the ‘team’.
The first was a woman, very cold, and concerned in an icy sort of way, warning him/me to be careful. We’d successfully inserted her into a position of power. Actually, I think that was the underline point of the con, though I don’t think it’s what we’d been sold on. We were supposed to get her in. Once we had, though, we couldn’t be her concern anymore, because she’d been put there for a purpose, and she had much bigger, more dangerous things to be worried about. We’d put her in to start taking down something that was a threat to all of us. There was, very much, an implication that regardless of anyone’s feelings, good or ill, we likely wouldn’t be seeing her anymore, unless things went very wrong, or very right.
Which was why, I think, she wasn’t overly worried about having cheated two of us, myself included. She was confident that either I’d understand what it was for, or that she’d shortly be somewhere I couldn’t do a whole hell of a lot about it. Which, as it happened, was fair. And why she’d spoken to me, and not the fourth member of the team. Which I’ll get to in a second.
The second conversation was with an older man, a slim, good-humoured, ratty sort of dude. And this one, this is the one I remember, that stuck with me out of the dream and kept it in my head. He’d gotten the money. She’d gotten the power and the actual point of the mission, and he’d gotten the money. He was cheerfully planning to leg it to another country and leave the rest of us to manage however. I think I suspected that she and him were old friends, and that getting him the money and getting him out before whatever she was involved in went down was at least part of the point. They’d cheated us, the pair of them. Left me and our fourth in the dust. But he was so friendly about it. Not in a false way, but in sort of compartmentalised ‘business is business’ sort of way.
He wanted to know if I’d be okay once he ran. I said I’d be fine, I had a friend to help me. He was delighted, wanting to know if that meant I’d properly hit on a lady we’d met during the con. Actually, I’d properly hit on the killer for a rival team we’d beaten to the punch. He was doubly delighted, not least because it meant I’d actually have capable protection. He apologised for leaving me to tie up loose ends and sort myself out, but he’d never doubted I was capable.
And then, he made an offer. A friendly, entirely genuine offer. If I needed to bug out later, and so long as I wasn’t trying to kill him, I could look him up. He’d give me somewhere to land. Because the job had involved leaving me in the lurch, but that was just the job. He figured we were friends, so if I needed it down the line, he’d give me a place to land.
Because yes, he was the biggest rat in this mess, but he was a rat friend, and rat friends are forever.
And then he bugged out, and she climbed her deadly tower, and they left me to tell the fourth member, the killer of our team, that they’d done so. Leaving us with nothing.
Because they’d been planning, friend or no friend, to leave me to deal with the loose ends. Whether that meant killing him, or getting killed, or finding my own way out of the mess.
As it happened, our killer was tired, and largely not surprised, and willing enough to just sit and commiserate about it. I hadn’t ever planned to even try to kill him, and probably he’d known that, so he wasn’t going to take anything out on me. But still. They hadn’t known that, though they likely could have guessed too. They’d left me very much in the lurch. Carrying the bag.
And, for whatever reason, I didn’t mind.
Rats or no, they were rat friends. And rat friends are forever.
Sometimes I very much enjoy my brain. It tells me stories in the form of dreams, a lot. I loved the tone of this one. This sort of weary ‘what can you do?’ vibe, in a world where betrayal is inevitable, but not necessarily cruelly meant. The job is just the job, and the rats are friends as much as they’re capable of, and that friendship matters regardless. Heh. Maybe more so, because you know the betrayal wasn’t cruelly meant, and it doesn’t mean help is forfeit in the future.
So, yeah. Sometimes your friend is a dirty rat. But that’s all right. He’s a friend regardless, and rat friends are forever. Heh.
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The Past 20 Years
I thought this would be the best way to start this blog. I think that’s still what this is called. Clearly I have no idea what I’m doing.
I’ve told my life story before to a lot of people, yet every time I try to sit down to write some of it out, I just don’t know where to start.
Trigger warning for mentions of religious trauma, childhood trauma and abuse, mental illness struggles, mention of self harm and suicidal ideation, alcoholism, eating disorders, fatphobia, homophobia and transphobia.
I was born in Michigan, and when I was around five my parents moved me and my twin (fraternal) sister to Arizona. Around then, my grandfather passed away from lung cancer. Sometime before that, I think, my parents got divorced. I have a very bad memory, a lot of that is attributed to childhood trauma and abuse and lifelong dissociation. I really only remember what my mother has told other people while I’m in the same room.
My father always lived nearby, and eventually he moved back into the house. Separate room than my mother, but because she would leave town for work often, it was easier for him to care for us while she was gone. My dad is retired from General Motors and is an Army veteran. My mother was a commercial bus driver. My sister and I got to go on trips a lot because of it. Everyone from out of the country loved the two twins who were dressed up as cowgirls.
Sometime in third grade, my parents moved us to a rural part of Arizona. Very small and conservative town. We lived on about four acres of land, with neighbors pretty far away. We were about 15 mins from town, from civilization. The church me and my sister were dragged to every Sunday was about forty-five minutes away. It was then that my mother went back to college. After a few years, with homeschooling thrown in there, my sister and I got moved to a bigger town about two hours away.
This is probably when I start remembering my life the most. Now is a good time to mention my stomach problems, because it’s a huge part of my life and after reading this whole thing a few times, I have nowhere else to stick this paragraph in. My mother says I was practically born with these stomach issues, I don’t remember them as a young kid, only when I hit maybe 11 or 12. Without getting into too much detail, something is wrong with my stomach. I would love to be more descriptive, but after literal years of allergy tests and diets and even an endoscopy, no one has any idea what is wrong with it. Every food and drink (even water) upsets it and I have stomach pain nearly constantly. It’s gotten better in the past two years, mainly due to not being in school or around my family, but it’s still pretty awful. On average I spend at least two hours in the bathroom each day because of this, and I have to be careful with consuming anything in public if I don’t have a bathroom near me. Okay, that’s personal enough. It’s a big problem. I’ve had chronic health problems all my life, so just keep that in mind as you read later about the other crazy shit that my body pulls.
A few months into fifth grade we went back to public school, and my mother finished her college degree for social work about a year or two later. We were living in our van for a while, then an RV, then an apartment, and then finally the house where I would spend the rest of my childhood. My dad lived in his own room across the hall.
My dad is diagnosed with bipolar disorder, and has been on medication for it most of my life. He’s also an alcoholic. Three beers before noon, more throughout the day. He never was really drunk unless my mother had friends over. I didn’t like when he was drunk. He got louder. My father had anger issues my whole life. He yelled over anything someone did that upset him, except if it was my mother who did it. She was always the one in charge. Even though they were divorced he was deeply in love with her. He acted more like an adult older brother who still lived at home. He never acted like a father. I have a lot of trauma from his yelling. Dropping a glass or a drink or running into something. Folding a towel the wrong day, not cooking the way he liked. Any time I was in the kitchen he would come in and stand behind me, watching and not saying anything. I’m still working through all that. But I used to watch westerns with him on the couch, his arm around me. We would watch baseball and football, but baseball was my favorite. Or at least, it was his favorite. I got a lot of my music taste from him. Rock and roll on the radio whenever he was driving us somewhere. We bonded over that as I got older. I dyed my hair orange when I turned 18, and he loved it. Orange is his favorite color. When I started getting piercings he loved those too. Asked when I was going to get a tattoo. He had a few old ones from when he was younger, and he loved talking about them almost as much as I loved asking about them. As an outsider, my dad was a pretty cool guy. But he was an awful father.
I was always closer with my mother. I’m having a hard time right now thinking about what to write about her. She has some good qualities, but I’m not at the point in my life where I could name them sincerely. She is suspected to have borderline personality disorder that is untreated and ignored. She had horrific childhood trauma that she would casually talk about over Christmas dinner. It was her dad that passed from lung cancer. She tried her best, that’s what she always told me. But I honestly don’t care. She was a horrible mother, a horrible person.
At thirteen, I was in a car accident. Rear-ended at a stoplight while my dad was driving. My sister and I were in the back seat, and the car was totaled. The guy hit us at about 30 miles per hour. Hit the gas instead of the brake. We went home to eat dinner, and then my dad took us to the ER. Mild whiplash, no scans, no nothing. Told to go home. The next day I had my first ever panic attack.
About a year of panic attacks, self harm, grades dropping, and suicidal ideation, I finally told my mother about it. Primary care physician appointments nearly every week led to a Phoenix Children’s Hospital referral. Psychology, neurology, anyone who might help. After about another year I left with a diagnosis of a traumatic brain injury, social anxiety, and major depressive disorder. I was put onto medication. I switched medications about eight more times. Eventually my mother didn’t let me try anymore. Soon after I started getting chronic migraines and nausea. The nausea went away sometimes, but for over a year I had a migraine constantly. At its lowest it was a 5 on the pain scale. It never went away. When I woke up and when I went to bed it was always there. Even a shot of Toradol in my ass didn’t make a dent.
This is where I’ll talk more about my mother. Most of the issues started after the car accident. Along with my struggles came her ignorance. I would break down in front of her over school, she would stare at me coldly, saying that grades and graduating is important and that she’s trying everything that she can. I would say I was suicidal and self harming, she would cry and say she was an awful mother. I would leave the conversation with me having consoled her, telling her she’s great and I’m going to be okay. Of course, her doing everything in her power consisted of taking me to church programs that were meant to heal me, asking her prayer group to pray for me, telling me to pray and meditate when my chronic migraines were getting so bad I could barely stand, and threatening to take me to the hospital if I kept saying I was suicidal. The one time she took me to the ER, she wouldn’t let them put me into an inpatient program. She took me home to be on suicide watch. She said if I hurt myself during it that she would be arrested. She took me off my antidepressants and told me not to tell my doctors, to lie and say I was still on them. She did everything she could think of, but apparently she never thought of actually listening to what I was asking for.
I had started therapy maybe a month before my car accident, because I had come to accept that I was bisexual and I knew that, according to my mother and my father and my grandmother and my church and the Bible, it was a sin. That therapist stopped answering our calls after my mother told him that a few sessions in.
My mother continued switching me from therapist to therapist, most of them Christian, none of them I had a say in. When I finally found one that I connected with and who was helping me make progress, my mother stopped making me see her. I was realizing that my mother was abusing me, and I was trying to help myself and set boundaries, and according to her, “I’m your mother, you can’t have any boundaries with me.” So that therapist was out. With all the therapists I had seen, one of the worst was my second one, who was the step-daughter of the first therapist who ghosted me. She liked to quote scripture at me, and say that she wished God would let her love gay people, but unfortunately he didn’t.
The worst therapist I had ever seen, by far, was a woman who specialized in equine therapy. I was never into horses. My mother, though, loved horses dearly, which was of course the only thing that mattered. When talking to her, it was fine. I don’t remember it much. The way she practiced therapy, though, was, in my opinion, unacceptable. Because she recognized that I struggled with placing boundaries (because I was told by my mother that I couldn’t), she decided to try to help me by placing me across the room and speed walking toward me, not stopping until I place my hand out in front of me and say “stop” loud and clear. As you can imagine, this caused issues, because this was her very first solution to this problem, rather than actually talking about it. And refusing to stop until I say “stop” in a way that she likes seems pretty messed up. Each time she did it I was forced closer and closer to a panic attack. She told me her eventual plan was to have herself replaced by a horse, who was walking (maybe even trotting) towards me. This probably would have killed me, because I was honestly afraid of horses at the time. Yes, my mother knew this, no, it did not matter. Any time we interacted with the horses, I was filled with anxiety and fear and every week I dreaded the appointment, and left with more trauma than I came in with. I asked to stop the appointments quickly, but my mother made me go for at least a month. After I left, I was done with therapists for a while.
I struggled through school since the car accident. My sister and I changed schools after starting 9th grade. I almost dropped out a few times, and I don’t think anyone actually expected me to graduate. I sure didn’t. I had to get a 504, which was basically a set of rules my teachers had to legally follow because of my disabilities. My brain injury, and at the time, chronic migraines and nausea. This meant extra time on assignments, no presenting in front of the class, no being called on in class, and being able to leave class at any moment to go to the office if I started having a panic attack. I had to do this often. Some weeks it was every day, and I would be there for hours, missing classes. This caused me to fall behind more. I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital twice during high school, once in December of 2019, and again in April of 2021. I graduated in May of 2021, and walked across the stage high out of my mind on the half pill of gabapentin my mother gave me before the ceremony.
The last therapist I saw as a minor was through my high school. I was very close with the principal and guidance counselor due to my issues. We had to interact daily due to my 504 and me being constantly in the office. The last semester of senior year I took every class via Microsoft Teams while working in the guidance counselor’s office. My anxiety and depression had reached a point where I could not be in a classroom setting and around other people. She mentioned starting a group therapy for students, and when the therapist came to the school I was the only one who had signed up. I saw my chance, and I told him everything. The car accident, the panic attacks, the abuse, the self harm, the suicidal ideation, the fact that I was so sure I wasn’t going to graduate high school but my whole life depended on it and it was all my mother cared about. I had less than an hour and I talked the whole time because I knew this was my only chance. I hadn’t seen a therapist in a while and I was self harming daily, and was very close to a very real suicide attempt. And so he went out to the parking lot where my mother was (that’s a whole other crazy story. For a short time she was parked in front of the office all day to “make sure” I was doing my work and to “be there” if I ended up having a panic attack. My principal was not pleased.) and tried to talk her into letting me become his client. She told him that I had an eating disorder, which at the time, I had no idea she knew about because she never asked or did anything about it. There’s another point off for the Mother of the Decade award there. Long story short, she signed the forms, and he came to the school every week to see me. I joined the group therapy anyway, but the students just ended up unintentionally triggering me and the worksheets given out weren’t helpful if you had been in therapy for around four years already. He helped me get through the last few months of my high school career. He helped me go back to inpatient psychiatric care when things just got worse. When I turned 18 he still kept me as his client, despite being a therapist for adolescents. I stopped seeing him about a month after I moved out, because the company he worked for realized they weren’t getting paid by insurance so we had to end sessions immediately. He wasn’t the best therapist I’ve ever had (my current ones are a lot to live up to), but he quite literally saved my life and got me through the last few months as a minor, and for that I owe him. He was a sick dude and I hope he’s still good.
I turned eighteen five days before I graduated, and the first thing I did as a legal adult was go to the DMV and get my ID. My partner and I had been planning for a few months to move to Phoenix. Them for college, me to get the hell away from my family. I needed an ID for that, along with getting piercings and tattoos, which I knew I wanted to do immediately. My mother hated tattoos, piercings, and dyed hair but always told me that once I turned 18, I could do what I wanted with my appearance, even if I was still living with her. This proved to be a lie, because when I dyed my hair at 18 she got mad I didn’t ask her, and when my sister and I wanted piercings, we had to let her know in advance and promise it wasn’t a septum piercing because we were “still under her roof”. Don’t worry, after I moved I continued to mess up my appearance without letting her know and gave her multiple mini heart attacks over it. And I of course got a septum piercing. It felt good.
August of 2021, the lawsuit against the driver who hit me in 2016 finally came to an end, and I was awarded, quite frankly, a fuck-ton of money. I was eighteen. Safe to say the money lasted a little over a year. Between crazy medical bills and the fact that I was a teenager who just got out of an abusive household and started living with my partner, the money went by quickly. Especially when I wasn’t earning any money. For a year I stayed inside our apartment, had therapy appointments every week, doctor appointments almost every week, many tests and procedures and hospital trips. I started to have chronic hives a month into moving into my apartment, with no apparent cause. Every allergy test came back negative, and no one had any idea what was going on, but I was still spending a lot of money trying to figure it out. It landed me in Urgent Care about three times, due to my face blowing up about three times normal size. I left with a Prednisone prescription and an epipen. After 3 months of hives that never went away and would get worse randomly, my therapist suggested my body was trying to tell me that now was the time to start medically transitioning after waiting for five-ish years. Weirder things have happened, and there was a lot of evidence as to why this might be the case. This is probably something I want to talk about at some point, my relationship to my body and how it communicates with me. And it was communicating pretty clearly. “Testosterone now or I’m going to kill you” was heard loud and clear. I was in a safe place, physically, and, at the time, had money. So one gender therapist appointment and a single phone call later, I started testosterone February 17, 2022. I haven’t had hives since.
I developed an eating disorder in middle school, not long after my car accident. I don’t think those are related, but my mother was plus size all my life and there was not a day that went by that she didn’t speak badly of herself, and that definitely is related. Same for my grandmother. They were on diets constantly. I was put on diets due to my stomach issues, but never for my weight. I was average weight as a kid, and at around 14 I started gaining weight. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for my mother to comment on it. Into the “thinspo” and “ana” pipeline we go. I remained thin for years, and when I moved out I was probably at my lowest weight. Then my hives started. I was put on steroids for months straight. A side effect of that is weight gain. I don’t know how much I weigh, because I chose not to weigh myself, but I think saying I gained 70/80 pounds wouldn’t be too far off. It was a big change, something I could not control. All I could do was watch. It was a lot to get used to so suddenly, especially when dealing with so many other things in my life. My body was changing even before I started testosterone. As most people with an eating disorder know, gaining weight is your greatest fear. Pretty quickly my eating disorder got worse, and an old eating disorder I hadn’t had in years got kicked into high gear. I am fat now, and I am more than okay with that. It took around two years to come to terms with that, and it’s only been the last few months where I finally felt comfortable calling myself fat. My body will never be the way it was before. There’s stretch marks and fat where there wasn’t before. I’m no longer the thin 18 year old. But that’s what life is. I’m 20, and I’m on testosterone, and I have tattoos and piercings and stretched ears and dyed hair. I’m never going to look like I did before and that’s okay. I like that. I’m a lot happier with my body now. Unlearning internalized fatphobia was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve made a lot of progress and I’m really proud of it. It’s still something I struggle with, but now I can say I’m “recovering” from my eating disorders, and that itself gives me hope.
I realized I was transgender when I was 14. There were signs before then, but as I said at the beginning of this, my memory is pretty bad. Since my mother didn’t know about this, I can only guess the timeline based off of my Snapchat memories and pictures I took at the time. I don’t remember exactly what was the final nudge, but one thing that sticks out is when my mother told me to be careful with how I styled my short hair, because I could “look like a boy”. I admitted to myself that that’s what I wanted. I did want to look like a boy. There were a lot of other complicated feelings that I honestly don’t remember. I told my best friend at the time, and she was accepting. I told my sister a few days later, and as always, she loved me and accepted me. I first identified as genderfluid, but that lasted maybe a day. I realized nonbinary fit better. I wasn’t a girl, I was neutral. I wanted to look androgynous and slightly masculine. I used they/them pronouns with close friends for a few years, and I went by Noah. At 17, not long before I turned 18, I told my best friend I am trans guy and my pronouns are he/they. I had known I wanted top surgery and hormone replacement therapy for years, and I knew I could still do that using they/them pronouns and being nonbinary, but one day I just looked in the mirror and it all clicked together. I’m a trans guy. I still don’t connect with “trans man”, and if we were to get into it fully, I am still nonbinary. But “trans guy” is the best descriptor for me right now. In late August of 2021 I told my best friend that I really liked the name Ezra, and had been thinking about it for months. I finally told my partner (over text, because I was terrified), and then came out to everyone on my Instagram and Snapchat, which had my friends and old classmates, as Ezra and using he/they pronouns. I try not to focus on the fact that I can’t completely remember how I learned I was transgender, and choose to focus on the fact that transitioning brings me a lot of euphoria and has turned my life upside down in the best way possible. I am so much more comfortable in my body, my life, my appearance, my relationships, and just how I move throughout the world. I am, for the first time, happy and content in myself. Still need top surgery, but you know, money.
I came out to my mother via text in late February of 2022. My grandmother said it was the same as if my mother texted me telling me that she has cancer. So you can imagine this was well received. I endured a week of phone calls and texts where my mother was crying, saying she wanted to kill herself. She told me she called a suicide hotline the night I came out to her. She was texting my sister constantly asking where she went wrong. She told me several times she “knew in her heart” that I wasn’t trans, that this was just the current trend. She was angry that I had never told her this before. There was a Zoom call with her and my sister where she spent most of the time crying and denying the homophobia and transphobia I was brought up on. My partner was out of frame holding my hand. The call ended with me breaking down in tears, telling her that I’m fighting to be heard here and that I’m sure about this and have been dealing with it for years and this is something that I never brought up because I knew this is how she would react. Eventually the call ended, and the next morning I had a therapy appointment. We talked about everything, and I decided I needed space from my mother. I told her that, and I have not talked to her since in 551 days. There has been one message from her since then, where she did not apologize, and said she loved me amongst a bunch of religious bullshit. My grandmother berated me over text and when I told her I was not going to have a conversation about it, she berated me more. I haven’t talked to her since then too, despite her texting me twice since then saying where Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner would be held if I was “still interested in family” and asking if I had “divorced myself completely from my family” which is truly a hilarious sentence. I, of course, never answered. My dad shared his opinion, which was based on misleading comments my mother told him. When I told him the truth, he never responded. Haven’t talked to him since, either. I am still very close with my sister, but it makes things hard when family gets brought up. I do my best with placing boundaries and being honest, and she is endlessly supportive and loving, just like she has been all my life. I’m doing a lot better. Going no contact was the best thing I could have done. In the week after I came out, both my mother and grandmother said horrible things about me to my sister and to her roommate. Things I don’t want to repeat here. Things like how I’m not her child anymore. I never got an apology from anyone. I think they expect me to come back and pretend everything is normal. I have a lot of family nightmares, and I’m working through all of this extensively in therapy. I’ll probably talk about all this more another time. But it’s still hard to think about. I was 18 when I stopped talking to most of my family.
Not long after my hives disappeared in 2022, and pretty soon after cutting contact with my parents and grandmother, I got kidney stones. That was a bad night. My partner had to drive me to the ER at 2am. I don’t have my license, mainly due to the issues I was facing in high school. All my energy went to staying in school and staying alive. Plus a car accident that gives you a traumatic brain injury and an insane amount of mental health problems is pretty traumatizing and doesn't really make you want to jump behind the wheel. By the time I realized my stomach pain was not my normal stomach pain, was consistently getting worse through the hours, and was in fact an emergency, the kidney stones were almost done passing. Still had to endure medical care professionals who had apparently never met a trans person before and a fun little CT scan. So I lived through that, without support from my parents, and that was tough but it showed me that I was able to live without them. I was 19 at the time.
The therapist I’m seeing now is, funnily enough, the same therapist my mother stopped me from seeing when I realized I was in an abusive household. After moving I found her on LinkedIn and contacted her. I’ve been seeing her for almost two years. She’s a great therapist and the progress we have made is immeasurable.
Another health issue that came up, around seven or eight months ago at this point, was photophobia. Photophobia is a sensitivity to light. It’s a symptom of a bigger condition. You guessed it, I have no idea what the condition is. This isn’t really the fault of doctors, though, my primary care physician said there was nothing physically wrong with my eyes and referred me to an opthamologist, but that’s about when the money ran out so I still haven’t been able to figure it out. All I know is that it is very painful. My left eye is worse than the right for some reason. Photophobia burns, it feels like someone squirt hand sanitizer in my eyes. My eyes get red and watery, tears start flowing and I physically can’t open my eyes without immense pain. The only way I have been able to help it is to turn off all the lights and close the blinds, lay down for a bit with my eyes closed, after maybe 30 minutes open them, and then slowly introduce lights back into the room. It’s a whole ordeal.
I think those are all of my health conditions, and they are very hard to deal with. This in addition to my mental health conditions make living very difficult, let alone living well. I don’t leave the house much, mainly due to my anxiety and my eyes. I’ve had the same friends since high school and I love them dearly but I’ve really only made one in my adult life, and I’m 20 now. Because I can’t drive I rely on others to get me where I need to go, unless there’s an easy bus route. I wasn’t able to take the bus for the first year and a half when I moved out due to my anxiety. Even the thought of it sent me into panic attacks. I can’t be out in the heat for too long, which sucks because I live in the Phoenix, Arizona area. I have bad heat intolerance, so bad that any time I leave the house I have to bring an ice pack. I used to not be able to walk long distances for a while without insane leg cramps (something that testosterone effects, apparently) but thankfully that’s gone away. I’m very much not physically or mentally healthy, despite how often I try to treat these issues.
I did have a job, though. Only the one, after the money ran out. March 11, 2023 to May 11, 2023. Doing exactly two months was an accident. I worked as a retail recovery associate for J.C. Penney. It was hell. I was having panic attacks almost daily, dissociating during the whole shift. My stomach issues were a hundred times worse, and the photophobia was acting up daily. I had to leave work because of it twice. I couldn’t see and it looked like I was sobbing while hanging up clothes. I liked the job, the work, some of my coworkers, and the customers. Repetitive and easy. I liked talking to new people daily. Misgendering was a huge problem, despite me wearing a pronoun pin. It doesn’t help that I was placed in the women’s clothing section because that’s where I was needed. Coworkers would misgender me constantly, one even found out my deadname somehow and wrote it down on a paper we were using for the dressing rooms. The main issues were with the managers. Every time I tried to call out because of my medical issues or just straight up fear and anxiety, no one would answer the phone, no matter how many times I called. I would leave a message on the manager’s phone, because that’s all I could do. Apparently they weren’t getting these messages, and thought I was always a no call no show. They didn’t tell me this until the day before I quit. They were deducting points from me without my knowledge and I reached a point where so many points were taken that I would be fired. I had to leave that day because of my eyes, but the second I left the store I had a panic attack. I called and quit the next day. No one answered the phone, so I had to leave a message. I still don’t know if they actually got that message.
Since then I’ve been unemployed. I’ve been to a lot of interviews, but no luck. My partner of almost three years has been completely financially supporting me. Thankfully my insurance covers my psychotherapy and EMDR appointments I have weekly, but my partner pays for my testosterone (about $50 a month) and my prescription medications (about $20 a month). They pay all of our rent and have been for months. They pay for our food and for the food for our pet bunny, Bunjamin Buttons. As you can imagine, that causes a lot of pressure on them and some issues for us. We’re working through it a lot right now, but that’s a story for another time.
I think you’re pretty much caught up! This is the first time I’ve ever written (most) everything down, and clearly it’s not in chronological order. Hopefully it was understandable. But that’s what I’m working with! At 20 years old I’ve lived the life of 10 men, it feels like. And I have the brain injury, OCD, PTSD, major depressive disorder, social anxiety, eating disorders, and depersonalization/derealization diagnoses to show for it. Fuck.
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SIX WORDS, THREE SENTENCES: A LONG POST ABOUT SHORT FILMS
Alternate Clickbait Title: I Watched 74 Shorts in 4 Days. Here’s Everything I Learned.
[Update: A printable version of the checklist is now available here.]
LONG, SKIPPABLE INTRO:
The origins of this post began in the fog of April 2020, when my local film festival was forced, like so many others, to switch to online screenings. With an unlimited pass and no screening schedule to work around, I kind of… just watched everything. A little over 70 shorts in all. And I found myself so disappointed by the lot that I started taking notes on everything I didn’t like. (Ultimately, in time since, I kept taking notes. The advice below is distilled from notes on one-to-two-hundred shorts over about two years).
These were works that their creators thought were good enough to release and submit to a film festival. They were good enough to make it through the festival screening process. And, almost to a one, the most interesting thing about them was the specifics of how they were bad— from ill-conceived concept to sloppy execution— and how they could be made better. These are things people spent weeks, months, maybe years of their lives trying to get right. Why are they less entertaining, let alone enlightening, than something someone came up with in twenty minutes and dropped on TikTok?
Most short films are bad.
This is not a revelation. Anyone who has seen more than a few will realize this fairly quickly. If you watch ten shorts in a row, nine will be overlong, clumsily filmed, boring, pretentious and unambitious, clichéd, juvenile, or just generally disappointing. The tenth will merely be overlong.
The lazy response to this is Sturgeon’s Law: 95% of everything ever made is bad. It feels right, in that dismissive teenager lizard part of your brain, doesn’t it? But even a quick glance at the evidence shows it’s not really true: as much distaste as we all may have for Hollywood’s output, the truly, incompetently, bad movie scripts don’t get greenlit, and the truly, incompetently, bad TV shows never make it to the air. The truly, incompetently, bad short films win awards.
The real reasons for this or far from mysterious: people don’t watch many, so they’re largely unaware of both overused conventions how diverse and inventive the form allows you to be. Most shorts are made by people who are some combination of young, inexperienced, and lacking in resources. Shorts are often made by groups of friends, who may be reluctant (or simply unqualified) to give honest feedback to improve the finished product. And the form of the short film itself is difficult— telling any story cinematically is already challenging, telling one completely in only a few minutes and not lapsing into cliché, obviousness, or pablum even more so.
Short films are a bizarre appendage on the entertainment industry. Unless you count commercials, it’s almost nobody’s job to make short films. They’re largely seem as an apprenticeship program, a way to either build or demonstrate skills on the path to a professional job directing features/TV/commercials, not an art form all their own (⤵️). As a result, the incentives behind making them are skewed: the narrative that short films primarily exist as calling cards for bigger things has placed more emphasis on making an image that looks expensive than on what’s actually being shown in it. If you go on YouTube or the filmmaking blogosphere you’ll find thirty camera reviews or After Effects tutorials for every single piece on storytelling. And that one piece will probably be full of bad advice Xeroxed from Save the Cat, or worse, someone’s takes about Star Wars.
(⤴️: At least in America. I don’t feel really qualified to opine about shorts from elsewhere, but from what I have seen this is less true abroad and overseas. Gotta love that public arts funding.)
It’s a shame. When someone finished a painting, we don’t ask them, “when are you going to do a mural?” When someone writes a few songs, we don’t assume it’s just a trial run at their real goal of doing a symphony. But at every film festival Q&A, one of the default questions (usually after “what did you shoot this on?”) is “are you thinking about expanding this into a feature?”. This is not an environment that leads to good cinema being made.
And here’s a harsh truth: you will probably never make a feature. So why not make a short that’s actually worth watching— and for that matter, worth making— instead.
I still have faith in the short film. I believe in the integrity of expressing an idea simply without having to smother it in 130 minutes of car chases and forced romantic arcs. More than that, I have faith in the idea that any random individual can get a camera and tell their story and show us something new. That great, or even just good, work can come from anywhere and anyone. That cinema can be something truly democratic, that we don’t need experts and gatekeepers and huge studio budgets, that the simple, honest, expression of what one person wants to tell matters. That you can make something in your living room and the whole world can see it.
But I’ll be honest, there haven’t been many times when that faith was rewarded. So I pretty quickly decided to put my all notes together, in the hopes that a little of this advice might make a change... and then spent the next two years ignoring it to work on other things, occasionally adding to it, making a long post even longer. The end result sits before you.
OK, BUT WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TO TELL ME WHAT TO MAKE?
First things first, anyone who says you can’t criticize something without making things yourself is an asshole who’s trying to avoid criticism. That said, in the last 10-ish years, I’ve made somewhere around 15-20 shorts, depending on your counting method, I’ve assisted on more than a few others, and I’ve written dozens more that will never see the screen. I’ve written, directed, edited, done art, audio, animation, most of it at this point. I once made a short— from initial concept to finished product— alone, with no crew, in four hours (actually, it was twice).
When I’m not working on films, I’m probably making weird uncommercial music, and I’m currently drafting and redrafting my first feature… a collection of shorts.
BEFORE WE GET STARTED:
This is creative advice, not logistical advice (mostly). If you want to know about camera settings, or file codecs, or set safety (and you should), or how to get funding, Google it. That advice is everywhere; some of it is even accurate. My intention here is to help you make a good short instead of a bad one; the burden of making one at all is on your back.
I make no claims of being comprehensive. The advice here was conceived in response to specific films I saw over the last few years and my own experience making things, especially topics that I haven’t seen covered much by others. There are things I don’t have the experience or background to cover in detail, and others that have been covered extensively enough by others that it would be a waste of time and space to rehash them here. Where possible, in both cases, I’ve tried to indicate and point to places it would good to start your research.
GENERAL ADVICE
SIX WORDS, THREE SENTENCES:
Everything below will help, but here are the only three things you actually need to do to make something great: Be clear. Be interesting. Be honest. Or to phrase it in the negative: “Don’t confuse me. Don’t bore me. Don’t bullshit me.”
While you can’t make a truly good work without all three, making art at a mature level is about constantly balancing these: More specificity is usually more interesting and more honest, but it can also confuse the audience; sometimes you’ll come up with a good joke or a plot turn that is interesting, but sells out the integrity of a character or confuses what their arc is supposed to be, etc. Using generic, broad stereotypes can make things easier to follow, but I hope I shouldn’t have to explain why you shouldn’t do it too much.
Luckily, honesty is rare enough that its mere presence is usually interesting.
If you prickled a bit at the word “art” in the above paragraph, I have bad news for you: you are now an artist. You can call yourself a “craftsman” or any other dodge if you don’t like the various negative connotations of that word, but art is what you’re making and art is how it will be received. You can’t make honest work if you’re not being honest with yourself about the kind of work you’re making.
And if you didn’t prickle at it, I have bad news for you, too: you are also now an entertainer. Nobody cares about your bold innovation and deep meaning if they’re being bored out of their skulls. Your viewers are putting their time in your hands, give them something back in return. Shakespeare and Mozart made fart jokes— it’s possible to be accessible and still take what you’re doing seriously. Abrogating the responsibility to be either an artist or an entertainer is creative cowardice. It’s asking to stay in the small pond, to try less hard and be graded on a curve.
If there’s a fourth aspect to making good art, it’s ”be useful,” but I won’t talk about that too much here. If you’ve done the other three you’ll probably end up creating something useful, without having to try.
KNOW YOUR PRIORITIES (THE SECRET BELATED TABLE OF CONTENTS)
You can break this down differently, but generally there are seven steps to the filmmaking process, which happen in this order:
1. Writing
2. All Other Preproduction - Assembling a Crew, Casting, Storyboarding/Shot Lists/Planning/Scheduling, Production Design (Props, Locations), Fundraising
3. Production - Setting up: Staging, Costume and Makeup, Lighting, Lensing, Special Effects
4. Production - Filming - Acting, Camerawork, Sound Recording
5. Post-Production - Picture Editing & Visual Effects
6. Post-Production - Sound Effects, Music, Mixing
7. Release - Distribution & Promotion (nothing at this stage will make your film any better so there’s no advice on it in this post. There is however a quick abridged version of the full article and a handy checklist you should definitely copy, so let’s link those here.)
In reality, of course, the order of them is never all that simple. You’ll be editing and realize you pickups of extra shots, or writing to fit locations or special effects you have know you have access to. In animation, especially, you may be storyboarding and designing at the same time as (or instead of) scripting. Personally, I can’t start shooting something until I know what it sounds like. But that’s the general ideal for how you would sort these.
In a lot of short filmmakers’ minds, the steps are ranked, instead, in order of perceived importance, more like this:
1. Playing with cameras, renting equipment, trying in vain to justify shooting on film.
2. Showing off the zombie makeup.
2b. Rarely, showing off a different special effect(s).
3. I don’t know any actors, we’ll just put my sibling/spouse/child in it (choose according to filmmaker age)
3b. Hitchcock-style director cameo (optional)
4. “Oh god how do we cut this together.”
5. “My friends have a band, we can use one of their songs during the credits.”
Whereas the order they actually matter to audiences is:
1. How hot are your actors? (If working with animals, replace with “how cute were those animals”)
2. The music, if it’s good.
3. Can they hear what anyone’s saying?
4. Can they make sense of the plot or is it too weird.
5. The fact that your film is ten minutes too long.
6. Oh, that part was kind of funny.
7. That was cute, you guys worked really hard.
8. So how did you do (insert special effect)? (This used to be higher).
If you don’t believe me about 1 & 2, tell me how many music videos starring hot people you’ve watched more than once, versus traditional narrative shorts with “great scripts.”
So don’t panic about the pages ahead. You can get away with a cheap set or a shot out of focus. And while I generally believe most filmmakers should spend more time on writing and less time on lighting, if the thing looks and sounds cool enough, or documents something interesting, or showcases a really impressive performance, it doesn’t really matter if the story’s not that great… or if there’s much of a story at all (note that “if,” though).
Remember, most creative advice (even objectively correct advice like mine) is just noting things that have and haven’t worked before. You can and probably will be OK breaking almost any of the “rules” below, but at the same time know it’s probably gonna make your life harder, not easier. Choose your battle.
Finally, if you really want to make a short, watch lots of them— and take notes. When you watch them, what do you like, what do you hate? What do you want to avoid, or imitate? Why? You can watch things for years, way more than I watched to conceive this post, and if you’re not learning from them, all you’ll get out of it is having watched a lot of mostly-bad short films. (And take the notes right away. I haven’t met many people with a better memory than I have, and I still forgot so much in between initially watching things and putting my notes on paper that it probably delayed this post by over a year.)
1: WRITING: [TK: REMEMBER TO INSERT HUMOROUS SUBTITLE IN NEXT DRAFT]
If you scroll, you’ll notice this section is as long as all the others put together. Let that be an indication of how important writing is, and not the fact that I’m primarily a writer and so had more to say about it.
HOW TO BE INTERESTING. INTERESTING CINEMATICALLY, NOT, LIKE, AT PARTIES:
If I’m gonna name one problem with most of the shorts I’ve seen, it’s in the script. If I was gonna drill down and actually be useful about what was wrong with those scripts, I’d say they just weren’t all that interesting.
Most screenwriting advice— your Robert McKees and your bad imitations of Robert McKee— is fundamentally about clarity: how to introduce your characters, space out your plot points, situate yourself within genre tropes. The point of having your hero “save the cat,” in essence, is so we know which character is the hero. If you look long enough, you can even find writing advice— most of it directed toward memoirists and novelists, who aren’t as childishly afraid of “Art”— telling you how to write more honestly. There is almost no one out there telling you how to make your films and stories more interesting. So most of what’s below is an attempt to start closing that gap.
WHAT’S YOUR MOVIE ABOUT?
The most important, and most ignored, part of writing an interesting short is deciding what story to tell. If you start with a pig, as it were, good luck teaching it to fly.
Even knowing where to start can be hard: like many Americans, I was once younger, and one thing I remember from that time is beginners tend to know what they don’t want to make significantly earlier than they know what they do want to make.
Here’s a hot take: I actually believe most ideas can be turned into good stories. But just because something could be a good story doesn’t mean you, you specifically, will be able to turn it into a great short film.
For a start, lots of ideas have just been done to death—do you really think you’re the first person to try a Sergio Leone pastiche (or Tarantino, or Malick, or anyone)? Have some ambition. Why is this film unlike every other film before it?
Short films are a tricky medium. For one thing, they’re short. You won’t have the space to go as deep as a feature film or a TV series or a novel, or even a short story. They aren’t great at telling detailed or complicated stories. So why bust out the cameras when just writing is cheaper and easier? Because, maybe better than anything else, short films excel at showing us things.
And that is how you find your topic: What do you have to show the world? What do you need to show the world? What can you show me that no one else is showing me? What’s something that can only be seen in the town or the community or the house you live in? What do you know more about than anything else? A good short has interesting thing(s) to show us, and, ideally, something to say about them too.
Or to combine some of the points above: I’ve never seen a good short film about a hitman.
Show me what scares you, what angers you, what you love, what you think is fun. Show me what you think is interesting. It’s possible to fake interest in your material. But it’s better to find something you’re deeply interested in.
OTHER RANDOM ADVICE ABOUT CHOOSING A CONCEPT:
(All of these inspired by real shorts, names omitted to protect the guilty)
- I would hope this is obvious, but don’t engage in blatant propaganda or misinformation. You’re better than that.
- A concept isn’t interesting because you saw it in a movie. Or because it’s “weird” or “quirky.” There needs to be more substance underneath it.
- If everyone can guess the only joke from the title, do you really need to make a whole film?
- “Write what you know” can be misleading or unhelpful advice, but, still, consider if you’re a good fit to tell this story. If you’re a teenager and all your friends are teenagers, maybe don’t do the story about senior citizens (I’ve never seen a plausible old person written by anyone under 25). If you’re white and you feel the need to explain racism to everybody, you’re more likely to come off embarrassing yourself than educating the audience, even if everything you say is true. The best takeaway of “write what you know” is to remember that things you know a lot about are probably also things you already find interesting.
- Conversely, have ambition. Creativity is an eternal dance between embracing limitations and constraints, and finding new ways to break away from them. Don’t let good advice like mine tell you what you can’t do. One of my favorite shorts that led to this post had a full-on CGI dragon in it. A film story is good because it’s interesting to watch, not because it can be filmed in an afternoon. You may not have the budget to present the surface of Mars, but I bet you can still show us something more than another suburban living room. One-room, one-scene shorts can work fine individually, but watching too many in a row is inevitably claustrophobic and tiresome. (This may be more advice to festival programmers than filmmakers.)
- Something can be “interesting” without being “extraordinary.” Jean-Luc Godard once said everyone should just show the world what a day in their life looks like. Or if your life really is boring, find someone you know whose life isn’t.
- There are thousands of lists of short-film clichés floating around. They’re not bad to look at, but I’d advise you to write something first and then look at them; doing it the other way will just discourage you. It’s like being told not to think about a polar bear.
Got something? Good. Now let’s turn that into a movie… script.
NOT TOTALLY RUINING YOUR COOL CONCEPT
You have something that interests you. Now the even more important part: showing us why you’re interested in it. Show us why you wanted to make this movie. It seems like a low bar but filmmakers fail to clear it all the time.
If you’re interested in the setting, or the time period, make sure the things that interest you about the setting are actually in the story. If you’re interested in a theme or a political message, make sure someone watching your short will see that message in there. If you want to make a short about a bank heist, don’t spend half of it with the characters standing around their kitchen talking about things unrelated to the bank heist (that one’s real). A good title or logline will get people to watch your film, but think long and hard about whether what you’re actually making lives up to it. Don’t promise us something cool with your title or description and then not deliver; there aren’t many worse reactions your film can have than “anger and disappointment at the filmmakers.”
If you want to make a short about something from your real-life experience— of growing up poor, of immigrating to the US, of having a disability or illness, of being Insert Demographic Group Here, of being a Mets fan, whatever— drill down in to what is actually interesting about that experience. Not just to yourself. Everyone’s life is interesting to themself. I’ve seen so many shorts that clearly meant something to the filmmakers, but none of that made it to the screen. They had poured their soul into the project, only for it to leak back out. They had mistaken depicting a breakup with telling us anything about the relationship and the people in it, or mistaken showing one or two sad characters saying bland things at each other with giving us any actual insight into depression. And by reading this post up to now, you’ve already learned more about how a writer comes up with ideas than by watching the thousands of bad shorts where a twentysomething stares at a blinking cursor to show they have writer’s block.
[Update 2023:] You don’t want anybody’s response to your film to be, “what was the point of that? Why did they make that?”
(Special bonus advice on dealing with writer’s block: never start with a blank page. My notes for this 15,000-word post were 8,547 words long before I got anywhere near the first draft. If you’re looking at a blank document, you’re not writing, you’re pretending to write).
Making shorts is difficult and expensive. What’s the point of all the effort if no one gets what you’re trying to do? Think about a total stranger watching your film. What questions might they have? What questions would they not even know to have? What is something you can show them about your subject that no one else already has? How might they your experiences to their experiences (which of course, they find extremely interesting)? Now do the same exercise again, but this time if the stranger isn’t the straight, white, older, American, slightly-but-not-too conservative “average person” you probably pictured the first time around.
And remember, it’s OK to ask people what they’d like to see from your concept— maybe their answers will be moronic, but that’ll at least give you an idea of what you don’t want to do.
CONCEPT AND THEME
Think of themes like they’re destinations. The journey may be the important part, but when faced with two options, they help you know which direction to go. And just as every walk will inevitably end somewhere, your film is gonna end up being about something, whether you intend it to or not. May as well do it on purpose. Know what you’re trying to say and you’ll find it easier to decide which suspect should be the killer or whether the hero goes to work or stays home today. Or even if your character should wear red or green in this shot.
Be specific in your themes. Keep your sword sharp and you’ll cut deeper. Don’t think of themes in terms of “Redemption” or “Family” but “At what point does your quest for redemption become just another form of selfishness?” or “When can a family give you that nothing else can?” Themes don’t have to be questions, but it doesn’t hurt.
A work can be dense with dozens of themes, but remember that we’re talking about things that are short. People can only think about so much in a few minutes, and they probably won’t see your short more than once. It’s better to find a few things and really grab focus on them.
It’s OK not to know all this right away. Sometimes you find it as you go. Sometimes it changes as you go. Sometimes you realize what you’ve made years after it’s been released. But if your answer to “what is your film about” only involves plot and not theme, you might not really be ready to shoot.
SPECIAL THEME/ SUBJECT MATTER SIDEBAR: SERIOUS BUSINESS
A warning: Making a short About Serious Issues only works if you take the issues seriously⤵️. Especially at the length of a short film, you run the heavy risk of being glib or shallow, oversimplifying, and fudging facts— or to put it more simply, being dishonest. Even at best you’ll, likely end up with a political cartoon— one dimensional and one sided.
⤴️ To elaborate: the poet and scholar John Hollander, or at least, I think it was him, often pointed out that the opposite of “serious” is not “funny” or “humorous.” The opposite of “serious” is “frivolous,” and the opposite of “funny” is “solemn.” It’s pretty easy to list things that are both Serious and Humorous, or, for that matter, Solemn and Frivolous. [Updated: I initially neglected to credit them, but I first heard this quote and the one below about style from overthinkingit.com, specifically their excellent podcast.]
MOAR WRITING: CHARACTERS
A story doesn’t have to have characters at all (and remember, story is not always what short films do well), but humans are social animals, even the ones who say they’re not, and we tend to respond more to people than concepts or situations or plot twists. An interesting character telling jokes and eating a slice of pizza for ten minutes will make a more entertaining short than a million-dollar sci-fi epic about cardboard cutouts.
I’ve come to believe that this is the most useful piece of advice in this entire post, so I’m putting it in big letters: INTERESTING CHARACTERS ARE CHARACTERS THAT DO INTERESTING THINGS, NOT CHARACTERS IN INTERESTING SITUATIONS. They think in interesting ways. They react in interesting ways. Throwing in murder, or guns, or drugs at bland characters doesn’t create interesting stories on its own. “A Villain murdered my parent” is an Interesting Situation, but what matters is what the character chooses to do after that:
A Villain murdered my parents, so I’m gonna grieve quietly and cry into the bathroom mirror.
A Villain murdered my parents, so I’m gonna take the law into my own hands and track him down while making grim faces.
A Villain murdered my parents, so I’m gonna dedicate my life to economic equality and stronger gun laws, first as an advocate and then from inside the system at various levels of politics.
A Villain murdered my parents, so I’m gonna sneak around my Wizard school, breaking the rules to solve mysteries and learn obscure magics to stop his various plots and fight back against him, all while ignoring the problematic author behind this example.
A Villain murdered my parents, so I’m gonna put on a costume to scare criminals out of committing more crime— something terrifying, like a Bat— and also I’m going to take in other orphans like me in the hopes that they can follow in my footsteps while avoiding some of my trauma.
A Villain murdered my father, so I’m gonna seek out my father’s ghost to learn his identity, pretend to be insane so he won’t kill me too, stage a play to guilt him into confessing, try to murder him when that doesn’t work, behave rashly in a way that gets the wrong man killed, run off to join some pirates till the heat dies down, and finally get into a complex back-and-forth of duels and poisonings (spurred on by different, also interesting characters) that kills almost everyone I know.
Which of these characters seems most interesting to you?
Ignore all the madness you’ll find from other writing advice about arcs and diagrams and characters needing flaws and wounds and mother’s maiden names. In a longer work, these things have some utility, but you’re not writing an epic, you’re showing us a moment(s). No, your characters shouldn’t be completely bland and generic, but they also don’t have to be more complex than the length of your short can actually handle. Just have them do interesting things.
Similarly, a character is not interesting because of things that happened to them before the story started. If that were the case, tell us that story. They’re not interesting because they’re demographically similar to you (although, honestly, it can help). They’re not interesting because of their job or their parents or their “destiny.”
All of this is compounded in shorts. A feature or a novel can surround a slightly bland audience-insert-everyman with more compelling side characters or the promise of bigger things later; a short film doesn’t have that luxury. Characters need to do interesting things, right in front of us, right now. There’s a reason the most famous character to originate in short films is Bugs Bunny, someone constantly, ceaselessly doing interesting things. I’m not saying throw out internal motivation and just have your character act wackily for no reason— if you’re mistaking randomness for interestingness, you’re not thinking hard enough— but start them interesting and keep them there.
One more thing: sometimes, the most interesting character in the story is the narrator— or in our case, the filmmaker. Alfred Hitchcock’s camera often displays infinitely more personality and creativity than the humans in his films. If you have a style and voice, you can get away with blander leads. I’m not sure you should, but you can. Similarly, the viewer is a character in the story as well, going through arcs and learning about the story world— but that’s, I think, a topic more complex than this post has room for.
PLOTTING
To establish terms: A “story” is what happens: A Detective solves a murder. A “plot” is what we watch, in the order we see it: A detective goes to a crime scene. He interviews the witness. He flashed back to a previous, similar, case, where…[forty minutes and five commercial breaks later]… The killer confesses. The detectives share a donut and joke about their week. The plot of Memento, for example, famously runs in the opposite direction of the story.
“Plotting,” then, is figuring out what scenes or events to put in what order to tell the story. The term literally comes from the drawing of maps, if that makes it clearer..
This is usually where people get stuck and give up. Why everybody has an idea for a film but nobody has a script. This is why there are thousands of terrible books telling you how to write. This is the hill to get over: if you can work out the pieces and what order to put them in, the remainder of writing is just picking the best words.
I’ve deliberately put “plot” after “character” and “theme,” not because it’s less important, but because knowing the first two will make plotting easier. If you’ve followed some of the previous advice, you should know at least some of the things that will be in your film: scenes or images you want to include, things you want your characters to do, subjects you want to address. Write them all down.
The next step is taking what you just wrote down, and arranging it. It’s almost literally putting together a puzzle: you’ll be moving things around, seeing what fits together, looking for the whole picture. Some pieces won’t fit and you’ll have to throw them out. Some will be missing and you’ll have to invent them. You may find yourself with a lot more or a lot less than you initially assumed (this post, for example, was originally supposed to be about 5 or 6 pages long.) At this stage, that’s OK.
Some stories lend themselves easily to plotting. Consider the story “one person tells a lie from another.” There are several built-in plot beats that we can expect it to involve:
I. The events leading up to the lie that explain to us why it’s told. II. The moment when the character first invents it. III. The situation/dynamic that arises from the lie being told IV. The lie starting to fall apart— depending on the story’s Point of View, perhaps the teller starts slipping up and trying to cover their tracks, or the listener grows suspicious and starts investigating. V. The unmasking of the truth, and the way each party responds to finding out/being found out VI. How the characters go on now that they know the full truth. Maybe that all happens in a single scene, or maybe it’s spread out over a hundred-plus episodes, but either way, that’s six built-in moments, each with a strong and clear conflict between the characters, which will probably push them to do interesting things. You can see now why there are so many stories built around secrets and lies (to the point where a story built around every one of those beats would now be considered simplistic and clichéd).
Not every story will have such an obvious structure. The looser dimensions of short films also make it sometimes unclear what’s required: is this a one-page script or a forty-page one⤵️? It can be hard to tell. I told you before that this art form wasn’t easy. But the advice below will give you somewhere to start.
⤴️ (Generally, I’ve found the common guideline that “one page of screenplay roughly equals one minute of film” to hold less true for shorts than features. Shorts have different rhythms; the length of individual scenes, the relation of visuals to dialogue, the amount of description required, will and should be different than a feature script, which can mean the page counts are far shorter or longer than expected. In fact, for just that reason, I don’t think the script format we use for features is all that good for shorts, but that’s for another day.)
Every good film (or any other artwork) tells you what it is and how to watch it. At the length of a short film, that needs to be done immediately: we should know what we’re about to watch— setting, tone, subject/focus, genre, theme— all by the end of the opening shot. If you have a confusing or unbelievable premise, you’ll probably need to take a little extra time to set things up clearly, but get that beginning right. Oh, and the opening shot also has to be interesting.
Structure is emphasis. Things that are introduced early, that we spend the majority of the film with, are going to feel more important than things introduced two-thirds through (things that happen right at the end are important too, but that’s what the next section is about). Put your most important stuff at or near the top.
The beginning is vital for another reason: film watching is an act of faith. We don’t know anything about you. We don’t know if we can trust you. Show us we’re in the hands of a competent storyteller. Make a good enough first impression, we’ll be on your side, and even ignore some of your missteps later. Make a bad enough one and we’ll start rooting against you.
Show us the best parts. If your short involves, for instance, characters discussing an offscreen event that we never see, the discussion has to be more entertaining than actually seeing the thing would be, or you’re making the wrong movie. Leaving things to the audience’s imagination is a tacit admission that you’re not more imaginative than they are. It’s cheaper and easier to film two people talking than, say, a shootout or a car chase, but it’s also cruel, in a way, to not only give us a less entertaining story but to promise a better one we’ll never get to see. It’s your job to make a good film, not one that’s easy to shoot.
But only show us the best parts. Simplicity is fine; if you really know what you’re doing, all you need is a face, some words, and a few seconds. Be especially careful of extraneous information— while they may be delicious, you may not know that many shellfish species are considered “biologically immortal” because they don’t age— because even if you like a shot or line of dialogue, in context it can often confuse the viewer and do more harm then good.
Most shorts are too long. Even the really short ones. I’ve seen two-minute shorts that would have been better at thirty seconds. Occasionally you’ll get one that’s too short— the ideas are underdeveloped or they’re trying to cram in so much plot it becomes meaningless— but being too long, and, especially, going on too long with nothing interesting happening, are much bigger problems. Watching a movie is like riding on a train: if we’re not moving forward after a few minutes seconds, we’ll start getting antsy and frustrated.
Everything in the movie— every shot, every word, every breath— should be either necessary to tell the story or interesting to watch. This is as true in a four-hour epic as in a four-second clip. If it’s both, you’re gold. If it’s neither, cut it. If it’s necessary but not interesting, find a way to make it interesting— or rethink if it’s actually necessary. If it’s interesting but not necessary… you might still need to cut it. Take those on a case by case basis.
(Here’s a master-class-level secret: Nothing is necessary. Everything is a choice. Especially at the script phase. Everything that’s there should be there for a very good reason. But don’t lose sleep over that for now).
OTHER PLOTTING ADVICE:
- Try, as an exercise, rewriting the whole thing without dialogue, like a silent film. It’s 1 to 40 pages, you have time to do this, I promise. It won’t be the hardest part of making the film. Even if it turns out to be a horrible fit for your particular story, it will help you to see which parts do and don’t matter, to literally read it between the lines.
- Don’t introduce stakes that you’re not going to pay off. It’s not your job to disappoint the audience. If you’re not actually gonna kill people, don’t waste scenes setting up the killer. Don’t spend the whole time building to a climactic conversation and then end with your main character knocking on that person’s door. And don’t bother with a cliffhanger; no one is coming back for part two.
- Play to your strengths. An animated film that’s mostly dialogue is unrealized potential. A musical should be mostly music, not a lot of setup then twenty seconds of singing. A comedy should have more than one joke.
- If you’re making one of those shorts that’s just one scene excerpted to fundraise for a feature (or just as bad, the entire plot crammed into 15-20 minutes), the audience might not catch it exactly, but we’ll be able to smell something is off.
- Flashbacks, time-jumps, and non-chronological stories can be confusing at short length. Should you never do them? Of course not. But be careful and be clear. Never make the audience do math.
PLOT TWISTS SIDEBAR
Bad plot twists are endemic to shorts, so this section is going to be longer than you might expect.
I understand why ending twists are so common. Endings are often the hardest thing to write, and twist provide a little spike of energy that can feel, vaguely the same as a climax. A lot of shorts structured around the twist use it like a sort of punchline to a joke. But here’s the thing: you can tell more than one joke. If you have something surprising and interesting to show us, don’t wait until the whole thing is over to show it to us. Don’t write a forgettable horror pastiche that reveal it was a parody at the end— write a good horror comedy with laughs all the way through.
But if you insist, here’s some advice:
- A good twist heightens everything that came before. A bad twist undercuts it. If you’re telling a love story and suddenly they turn out to be aliens trying to murder each other, that’s just making us mad for investing in the love story. It’s handing us an apple that you know has a worm in it, and somehow not thinking we’ll soon have a bad taste in our mouths. Or worse, telling us an intentionally bland and generic story, justifying the blandness as setup for a twist where it was all a video game in the main character’s dream⤵️. Worst of all, your audience might sense that a twist is coming and check out of the setup because they’re trying to guess what it will be.
⤴️ Occasionally I’ll see a short— always a drama— that does this but it doesn’t even rise to the level of a twist. They’ll wait till the last scene to tell us what the character is actually going through; they won’t explain why we were supposed to care about the last 20-30 minutes (for these films are always long) until after we’ve already suffered through them. So while we’re here: telling us what your film is actually about is not a climax, it’s not a revelation. It’s just bad plotting.
It’s not your job to surprise the audience. Surprise isn’t actually all that interesting. Secrets you’re keeping from the audience are only interesting when we know there’s a puzzle to solve. Emotional engagement with the characters and what they’re doing is interesting. A good twist moves the emotional arc of the character forward, not sideways or backward: “Edward Norton had the potential to be Tyler Durden this whole time and he has to reckon with that;” “Bruce Willis has become so disconnected from his life and the people around him, he doesn’t even notice he’s died;” “Luke Skywalker wanted to be someone more special than just another farmboy, and it turns out he was… the son of a murderous space tyrant.” Note also that all that only one of these is actually at the end of the story, where the other two give the characters time to process what they’ve learned and resolve their arcs. They’re heightening what came before (not just plot but also emotion, mood, theme), not just letting the air out of it. They exist for reasons other than shock value or a bad joke. That’s not taking your story seriously and probably that’s not being honest.
Finally, and this will become apparent quickly if you watch enough shorts: your surprising twist has probably already been done. Some stock boring overused twists:
- Main character is dead/dreaming/in a coma/simulation.
-Pan down to a dead body on the floor that someone is trying to hide/clean up.
- A Woman (gasp) is doing a Man Thing, usually murder.
- Combining the last two, the kindly old lady character turning out to be an evil murderer.
- Pretty much anything involving suicide.
(All of these are bad for other reasons, but for now let’s focus on the fact that someone else in the same screening block as you will probably be doing the same thing.)
Some twists that are also overused but I’ve seen done successfully on occasion:
- Hero turns out to be the villain or vice versa (“The T2”)
- You thought we were in one genre but it was really another
If you must surprise me, surprise me by showing me things I haven’t seen before. Do it from the start, and keep doing it till the credits roll.
WRITING SCENES: POV & DIALOGUE
Now that you’re all plotted out, it’s time to drill down into individual scenes.
The difference between a good scene and a bad one is often a question of point-of-view: who are we experiencing these events with? Whose feelings are we feeling? Who is “us” and who is a stranger? If the audience can’t answer those questions from reading your script/watching your short, there’s a good chance they’re going to be confused about other things as well. We’ll accept not knowing something if we’re following a character who doesn’t know something. If not, we’re likely going to be confused about what is important and what isn’t. Point-of-view— awareness of what the characters and audience know, feel, don’t know, want to know— is often the difference between mystery, intrigue, or deliberate ambiguity, and just confusing and frustrating the audience.
(All of this ties back into twists, by the way, but let’s keep moving forward.)
There are exceptions and complications to this, of course. You might need to change the POV as we go along, or choose to adopt a more neutral “observational” perspective, as if we, the audience, were a third party watching this from across the room. And of course you might not have “characters” at all. The important thing is deliberately choosing how to use POV, not just letting things happen.
As for the dialogue thing:
I’m tempted to just say, “Why write a bad line when you can write a good one?” And honestly, you can probably just take that advice and do alright for yourself.
Problem is, there’s no right answer to what constitutes “good dialogue.” Sometimes good dialogue is realistic; sometimes it’s poetic. Some people will tell you dialogue is only good if it moves the story forward, but then when you implement this in practice, it feels forced and unnatural. Too much exposition, the audience gets bored; too little and they get confused. I’ve heard you should write things actors want to say, but I’m suspicious of anything that makes actors happy.
In general, cinema doesn’t like dialogue. On stage, a character considering suicide gives a 35-line monologue (I’ve only seen one play). In a film, he just stares at a gun. People tattoo poems and song lyrics on themselves; the best a movie line can hope for is to get misquoted in a Twitter GIF. I’ve seen too many shorts where the characters are basically narrating things that we can easily see for ourselves, and it was exhausting. Meanwhile, if a fully silent film is working, you often don’t even notice the lack of dialogue.
But I’ve also seen people overlearn this lesson and make shorts of nothing but people silently and gravely walking down corridors. Little-to-no dialogue can be claustrophobic and painful; you find yourself just wanting the character to say something after a while. And it’s hard for an actor, especially an inexperienced one, to give a convincing performance when they’re not saying anything. So be careful of cutting too much.
The good news is, “no right answer” means you can do whatever you want and use your own discretion. The bad news is I have no idea if what you want to do is terrible or not.
If nothing else, don’t fall in love with your dialogue. Your deep subtext and clever metaphors are not as deep and clever as you think anyway. A line that your actor can pronounce (or in some cases, understand) is always better than one that looks perfect on a page. And of course, a line isn’t good dialogue just because it was hard to write.
The one constant of good dialogue is it expresses character. Compare:
“Help, I’m trapped in a cardboard box!”
“Help, I’m trapped in a cardboard box! Sure is dark in here.”
“Help, I’m trapped in a cardboard box! Quick, slap a label on it and mail me to Hawaii!”
“Help, I’m trapped in a cardboard box! (sniffles) And I think before me it had onions in it!”
“You goddamn bastards better get me outta this goddamn cardboard box right now, capisce? You think this is funny or somethin’? I’m a made man, I know people!”
“Oh man! You’re not gonna believe where I’ve ended up this time, hoss.”
“Me in box! Can’t get out!”
“Mom?! Now, before I tell you where I am, I need to know you won’t get mad about it.”
“Hobbes! The Transmogrifier’s broken!”
“We have an agent in a situation 220, corner of Fifth and Fairfax, latitude sixty six point niner four…The agent in question? It’s, um, well, it’s me, sir.”
“This side up— Man, I gotta stop huffing glue.”
“Watson? Come here. It’s the most peculiar thing. I was investigating the interior of this crate for clues and unfortunately I seemed to have slipped into a rather undesirable position.”
“Alfred, it appears I’ve found myself in some kind of wood-fiber corrugated storage container. Possibly for the transport of refrigerators. …Yes, again. I suspect the Penguin is involved. Ready the Bat-drone to deliver a Bat-boxcutter. “
“Eh, what’s this box doin’ here anyway, Doc? Talk about a in-con-veeny-ence.”
(Says nothing, just reaches in his boot for the knife and starts cutting)
Those all take about the same amount of time to say, but it’s easy to see some of these have a little more character than others, even if some of the characters are not wholly my own. For that matter, I’ll assume you found some of them more interesting or clear than others.
Now is a good time to find someone to read your short and give you notes. Ideally someone qualified, and someone who will be honest with you, not someone who will be nice to you. Don’t be afraid of criticism: anything you can improve now is something you won’t have to fix later.
REALISM IN WRITING SPECIAL SIDEBAR
I remember in college we all thought scripts were more “real” if nothing actually happened in them. In retrospect this is because we were all 20-year-old film nerds who hadn’t had much of anything happen in our lives yet. We didn’t want to be dishonest, so we defaulted to saying nothing at all.
I would hope that you’ve outgrown that, and that I don’t have to explain the difference between “being honest” and “being realistic,” or for that matter the difference between “being real” and “being realistic.” If you are unsure of either, set this down and take a walk for a while and come back to this spot when you feel you understand better.
There’s a tremendous and under-explored value in the documenting aspects of cinema, its ability to show us places halfway around the world, or the quantum structure of an atom; or to depict a slice of everyday life 400 years ago, or record a real-life sporting event with 50,000+ people in the stands, or to capture and show the personalities of people long after they’ve died.
But you’re going to be working on a short film budget. Basically none of that applies. If you could afford to build an accurate replica of the Roman forum, you’d be spending that money on a feature (hopefully not one of the ones about a bunch of people in a rental house whining at each other, but that’s a separate advice list).
If you’re showing us, say, a subculture or a location that isn’t often-depicted, you probably have an obligation to get things as accurate as you possibly can (you’re also probably making a documentary anyway). But if you’re making, for instance, a western or sci-fi short, realism is generally a waste of your time. Put that effort into getting your story, your characters, and your performances honest and interesting, not worrying about getting every period detail perfect.
And it’s often more honest to be less realistic. Misrepresenting, say, hunting, in a way that “feels real” will strain the disbelief of anyone familiar with the subject, or even make them angry at you. Get a few details wrong in an exaggerated version, and you have Elmer Fudd. Suspension of disbelief takes time for the audience—they literally need to stop and think about it— and you don’t have much, so make it as easy as possible for them. Don’t think of stylization or theatricality as concessions, but as storytelling tools, signals of the level at which to take your story. As [someone I couldn’t manage to identify via Google] said, “style is a consistent distance from reality.” So be consistent.
[Updated: after seeing a few things at a recent festival, I noticed a recurring issue I left out of this article. I saw more than. a few reasonably well-made shorts that put effort into presenting their subject accurately, but didn’t really achieve anything beyond that. <b>They would create a realistic depiction of what Covid/racism/growing up looked like, but there wasn't much actually being said beyond "this kind of sucks."</b> There’s value in presenting things accurately, but art requires a level of transcendence— maybe it’s insight, or context, or style, or something else— you can’t <i>just</i> show us something, you have to frame it the right way.]
DOCUMENTARIES SPECIAL SIDEBAR
While the process for making them is different, much of the best advice for writing also applies to documentaries as well: it’s hard to make a good doc without interesting characters, concepts and characters introduced at the beginning will seem more important while those introduced later can feel like an afterthought, too much information can overwhelm the audience, so focus on things that necessary and/or interesting and don’t go on too long (seriously if you’ve got a minute-plus of just music playing under B-roll, you’re not finished editing yet). There are also a few more to consider:
- A good documentary either teaches us something we didn’t know before, retells a compelling story, or introduces us to interesting characters (ideally all three, but at least one). That’s what you need to be aiming for. If you have an on-paper interesting subject but can’t find the story, characters, or lesson, you either have more work to do or you’re on a dead end.
- All good movies have structures. In fact, movies (like documentaries) that don’t use traditional three-act narratives often have even more rigid structures, so that they remain clear in the absence of the familiar Joseph Campbell landmarks. You can’t rely on just showing events chronologically and have to instead be very smart about grouping things by topic, anticipating questions the audience might have, pacing information out, and spinning a narrative in a way that remains honest to your subjects.
- Unless you really luck out on a subject, the things your subjects want to talk about unprompted and the things about them that are interesting to the audience are unlikely to be the same things. To make a great doc you either need to follow them long enough to find the interesting stuff, or you need to be really good at asking the right questions. It’s an open question whether most people are interesting or not, but some are better at expressing what’s interesting about them; there’s a difference between someone who has a good story and someone who’s good at telling it. Sometimes it’s your job to bridge that gap.
- You may not intend this, but any documentary about a business owner and their business is going smell a lot like a commercial.
- The barrier you have to breach for a music-related documentary: is this more interesting than just showing the musician playing for that same length of time will be?
- Give us insight, not platitudes. If you’re not telling us something we don’t already know, you’re not finished.
- Be patient. I’ve seen docs that took years to film and still only ended up as shorts. You may not be done when you think.
- No documentary is ever finished (no story is ever finished, not in real life). The honest thing to do is to make that clear within your film.
2: PRE-PRODUCTION: YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE READY TO SHOOT ONCE THE SCRIPT IS DONE? HA!
INSERT GETTING THE GANG TOGETHER MONTAGE
Ask any successful film director and they’ll tell you the most important part of their job is hiring: taking the time to assemble the absolute best cast and crew to pull off the project, and relying on their expertise to elevate the project.
You won’t be able to do that. Either you’re paying for a crew, in which case you’ll get whoever you can afford, or you’re relying on volunteers, in which case you’ll get whoever is willing and available and hopefully knows how to boom or slate. Consider it an adventure.
And of course a lot of this work will be insourced back to you. If ever a short has hired a production designer out location manager, it was probably for money-laundering purposes.
CASTING:
This is where I reveal the holes in my experience: I’ve never actually had to do casting. In fact, I’ve never had to hire anyone; I mostly work in animation and do all the work myself. But I do know other people who have made films and I’ve seen the process with my own eyes.
Casting is probably the only hiring you’ll actually have much control over, because actors are cheap, they’re all over the place, and they’re desperate to work. You could probably trick them into painting your fence, Tom Sawyer-style, if you included an IMDb credit. If you’re unsure where to even start, the best place to find local actors with film experience is by watching a lot of local short films (I apologize in advance). Contact the directors or the actors themselves if you see someone who’s a good fit— you should really be making friends with these people anyway.
Despite this, many short filmmakers, whether because of availability, familiarity, or social anxiety, still go the route of casting friends and relatives. I think this is a mistake not only because your friends are probably not that talented, but also you’ll be reluctant to cut their lines later when you realize they weren’t necessary or interesting.
Another note: Gender-/race-/age-blind casting probably seems really progressive and defiant and 2020s when you’re planning it, but at the screening you’re likely going to have a confused audience wondering why they keep calling that female character “he.” On the other hand, I once saw a short where the lead was a potato, his mother was a golden retriever, and his father was a middle-school girl, so your mileage may vary.
Finally: assume only one of your actors will actually be any good (even if they have a good audition). Actually, this is probably something to consider at the script stage, but unfortunately, you won’t know which one it is in advance.
PLANNING AND PREPPING AND SHOT LISTS AND STORYBOARDS AND TED AND ALICE
Some of this will change based on your sets and locations, but it’s better to do it first and then revise all you know what you need.
At some point before you shoot, prototype. Do an animatic or a live reading, or at least a storyboard, whichever fits your particular script better. You don’t want to get to the editing room and have to use captions or something to paper over a beat that you thought made sense
Storyboards (and if you’re fancy, animatics) are also the best way to tell if your shots actually cut together. Shots that look good don’t actually look good if they don’t cut together.
Make a shot list. Every ten minutes you spend on it now will save half an hour of confusion on set. Do all the pros use a shot list? No. But the pros are working with other pros who won’t forget to take the lens cap off or needs twelve takes to remember a line. You need things running efficiently. (The pros also frequently go overtime and shoot fourteen-to-twenty hours a day, putting the entire crew at risk for health issues and accidents, so let’s not emulate their example.)
Don’t try to reinvent the wheel with your shot list or setup numbering either. Just look up the standard 1A1 method everyone else uses (which is a little too complex to explain here). We figured out the best way. It works. Everyone knows what shot they’re working on with it.
Now that you’ve finished your shot list, cut it in half. You don’t need as many shots as you think you do. Everything will take twice as long as whatever you’ve planned for. [There are several other reasons to use fewer shots, but we’ll get to them in a later section.]
Schedule reshoots. What’s the secret Hollywood doesn’t want you to know? Reshoots. Whether it’s just to get a few inserts or establishing shots, or to revise whole scenes or performances, it’s always better to fix something correctly than to paper over it in the edit. It’ll be hard to make it work, and it’ll be 1000% worth it.
It’s probably a good idea to have a budget, too, but I find the concept boring (the greatest advantage of working alone is your personnel costs drop to zero) so I’m skipping it over. Look that up in your own time.
SETS, PROPS, COSTUMES, LOCATIONS, & EVERYTHING ELSE IN YOUR SHORT THAT DOESN’T TALK
FIRST POINT:
Production design is a storytelling tool. The sets and costumes exist to tell us things about what we’re seeing. For instance, we shouldn’t be wondering why a married, high-flying doctor and lawyer seem to be living in a tiny studio apartment, or why the doctor’s office looks like somebody’s kitchen table (I’ve never seen a convincing doctor’s office in a short). It’s not ideal but it’s excusable. Where you’ve really failed is if it’s not even clear what this place or person is supposed to be or what we’re supposed to think about them.
Because design is a means to an end, not an end in itself. Production design can have a lot of moving parts, and it’s really easy to let them take over all of your attention. But if your storytelling is good enough, nobody’s really going to care that your Old West saloon is clearly just a regular bar with a horse painting on the wall. Conversely, if your story is boring, all we’ll be noticing are the fakey-looking sets, props, and costumes.
You’re never going to get 100 percent realism. Your job is to get it right enough, and then to do get everything else so good we don’t notice the difference. Having some style can fill in the blanks. Is everything in your fifties diner suspiciously modern? Maybe don’t opt for a crisp, deep-focus, contemporary-looking digital look where that’ll be obvious. Is your “busy restaurant” suspiciously empty? Be smart about your shot choices and fill in the noise with sound design.
SECOND POINT:
A lot of shorts, and in fact more than a few features, are built around production design. You have access to a cool location, or a lot of people with medieval costumes and swords, or a collection of classic cars (or, similarly, a special or visual effect you know how to do, a bunch of performer who are expert skateboarders/dancers/sax players, whatever it is), and build your whole story around it. And this is… fine. It’s a much better situation than the one above. It can often inspire some pretty good work if you actually find yourself inspired. Remember, shorts excel at showing us things. If you legitimately have something to show off, go for it.
THIRD POINT:
Short films are in a bit of an identity crisis. What’s the real difference between a short film and TV show sketch or a Youtube video? Besides the fact that fewer people will watch the short?
Too many filmmakers have decided that the answer is “money.” It’s not a real short film unless it’s a “film.” We need “production value.” We need 40 locations, a battalion of perfectly recreated WWII costumes, twenty miles of dolly track, all to fulfill some vague notion of being “cinematic.” Because who needs story and characters when you can have drone shots?
I’m not sure who they’re trying to impress. Either the hiring committee or their dad, I suppose. Either way it won’t work.
SPECIAL LOCATIONS SIDEBAR:
One of my favorite things about short films is that they come from all over the country. They’re not all shot on the same five Atlanta backlots. What’s depressing is how often, with this big, sprawling, geographically and architecturally diverse country, we end up looking at the same identical, indistinguishable suburban houses, but sometimes there’s palm trees. Figure out how to shoot the place you live. How does it feel, how does it smell, how does it sound, how is it different from everywhere else? What’s unique or interesting about it? And not “what are the landmarks on the tourist brochure?” This is your art, not a pop quiz— give it more than half a second.
One of the challenges with locations is balancing “easy to shoot at” vs. “interesting to look at.” It’d be cool to shoot in Times Square as the New Year’s ball drops, but, at the very least, you’re not gonna be able to shoot many takes. But I don’t necessarily want to just see your backyard, either. For every film, that decision should happen on a case-by-case basis.
Always have a backup location if the first falls through. And remember what I said about reshoots. Know if you can get a second day to shoot. And while you’re there, take some test shots and do the basic checks: electrical, nearest hospital, how is the sound (look for train tracks), and most importantly, where the bathrooms are and if they’re any good.
PRODUCTION: THE LEAST IMPORTANT PART OF PRODUCING A FILM
SET MANAGEMENT: THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF PRODUCTION
There’s a good chance that you’ve been mostly running the show yourself up to now, and this is the first time you’re really working with other people on this project, so here’s Rule #1: Don’t be a jackass. Don’t yell at people. Don’t be passive-aggressive. Don’t tell gross jokes. Don’t ignore the safety of your cast and crew. Don’t shoot forty takes even if the first thirty-nine were bad. Don’t let anyone else be a jackass. Don’t hold up everyone else by being indecisive or not knowing what you want. Don’t get mad at people for being unprofessional, because most likely they’re not professionals.
Some things are out of your control. You can do everything right and the film can still turn out unwatchable. But you can control how your set is run and whether people can stand working with you.
If you’re working with professionals, learn the BS set jargon before you start. It’s gatekeeping and it’s stupid, but they’ll absolutely judge you for not knowing what C-47s are (conversely, don’t be the guy that judges people for not knowing what C-47s are). If you’re working with people you already know, don’t bother.
CINEMATOGRAPHY: THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF PRODUCTION
Really you should have worked most of this out before you were on-set, but including it earlier threw off my structure.
I’ve never seen this clearly stated, so I’ll do it. This is the standard default way to frame a shot: Focus, literally, focus the camera, on the actors’ eyes. Put the eyes at or near the rule-of-thirds mark, the top right one if they’re looking left and the top left one if they’re looking right. Make sure we can see some light reflecting in them so your subject doesn’t look like a corpse. This rule applies for both closeups and wide shots.
Of course, now that you know the default, you can deliberately deviate from it, just as you can play your guitar out of tune, orr u canne sp3ll werd$ howeva yoo fëēl iz kewl (it certainly worked for the Beatles and the Monkees) or _bre_**ak** ~all~ kInDs > > of<< o r t h o g r a p h i c ||||conventions|||| / esnes sekam ti sa gnol sa tsuj <- . But you can also frame every shot that way for your whole career and no one will complain, not once.
As with actual grammar, elements of film grammar can mean multiple things, and a full thesaurus would quadruple the length of this post. But know the basic terms— close-up, two-shot, wide shot; high angle, low angle, dutch angle; pan, tilt, dolly, crane; and the difference between a push-in/pull back and a zoom— and how they’re generally used.
The cheapest way to make your movie look more expensive is to frame everything in 2.35 ultra-widescreen. Should you, though? It’s pretentious and transparent and it doesn’t really improve your story and it often leads to some strange framings… but, annoyingly, somehow it still works. So it’s up to you. If you go the other way and frame it in 4:3, you’ll just seem pretentious. I’ve done both.
On that same note: Do you want to shoot in black and white? Explain to me, in clear terms using complete sentences, why. Don’t just stare at your feet and mumble the word “noir,” look me in the eyes while you tell me.
Nobody ever said “that movie was so good, it had so many shots in it!” They might talk about the quality, but never the quantity. It’s better to shoot five setups perfectly than “nine perfect but one bad.” So do fewer shots and get them right. Especially if you’re doing something complicated with color/movement/ whatever.
Specifically, I’ll save you some time now and say that your shot of a car driving down the road is filler and isn’t worth setting up. Even if it’s a cool car and even if it’s a drone shot. We know the person drove a car to a place, just show them arriving.
In a short, you’re generally going to be better off shooting scenes in fewer, wider shots, than a lot of closeups, for multiple reasons:
You’re probably going to be working with either non-professional actors or actors whose background is primarily theater (especially if you’re not in LA). In either case, they’ll perform much better if they can play off each other rather than into the blank void of the camera, and they’ll be able to build their performances better in longer shots where they can move around, than three or four seconds at a time standing frozen on their mark.
Closeups are better used for emphasis. If every line of dialogue in your film is delivered in closeup, you’re probably creating something pretty monotonous and boring to look at.
As I mentioned above, things will take longer than you expected. All that time you would have spent setting up your shots you can instead spend doing a few extra takes and building better performances.
And, most importantly, half as many shots mean half as many times that you’ll need to throw something out in the editing room, but won’t, because “that shot took an hour to set up, I have to use it somehow.”
You don’t actually need that many shots to tell a story. Theater does everything in one. Radio doesn’t have any. Most visual art is composed of a single, unmoving frame. If you had to tell your story in those mediums, where would you start?⤵️
(⤴️ The last of these isn’t a hypothetical or an exercise. At some point you will literally need to create still images for your posters, thumbnails, etc. that sell exactly what your film is.)
But also, shoot inserts. Shoot establishing shots. Shoot things even if you don’t really need them. “Tape” is cheap. You will want them in editing as well. Be prepared to shoot things and then not need them. If you must, shoot twice as much as you need, just to do it; just to get used to the idea of throwing out footage (but not in a way that wastes other people’s time of course).
Don’t move the camera just to move the camera. Don’t do things just because they “look cool” or because you saw something like it in (insert whatever director everyone is imitating in your area)’s film. As Tywin Lannister said, anyone who has to pull these kinds of tricks to say “I’m a real director” is no real director. A real director tells the story how they want to tell it, not how someone else would.
Of course, that also means not just shooting everything handheld because it’s faster.
I believe every shot in your movie should accomplish something. Push the story forward, set a mood, explicate theme, look amazing, be new and innovative— I want every shot to do every one of those things. Say it together, necessary and interesting. But in practice that’s always possible. So just keep reaching for that ring and seeing just how close you can get.
ACTING: THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF PRODUCTION
Acting and working with actors is mostly outside of my experience, but here are a few things I do know:
As someone who is primarily a writer, it pains me to say the following, but it’s true: a good central performance will do a lot more for a short than a good script, good cinematography, good effects, anything else. People like watching people. And good actors will do interesting things even if you don’t script it. (But note! This is only true of a short; a feature needs a good script and good direction and in fact can get away with just-OK acting).
And a bad central performance can tank the whole thing. I’ve seen a few otherwise-good shorts flop because the writer-director decided to just do the acting too. If you have any choice besides casting yourself, don’t cast yourself.
I said this once already, but assume going in only one of your actors will really be any good. Hope it’s your lead. You can edit around everyone else.
The annoying thing about working with actors is they’re all different. Some like to be bossed around, some like to be left alone. Some need multiple takes to work something out, some get worse the more they repeat themselves. Some go to extreme “method” lengths to get into character, others want to get hired again. Et cetera. This is compounded by the fact that you usually need more than one. So you’ll be balancing different working methods from shot to shot.
The best way to get around this, of course, is to just ask the actors how they prefer to work. And then ask directors and other people they’ve worked with before to get a second opinion.
Your additional reading for this chapter is to start learning Actor-ese. Verbs, intentions, motivations, not giving readings, all the suspiciously-similar techniques named after different teachers. Does it seem ridiculous? Yes, but so is pretending to be somebody else, so why would you assume the work behind it makes sense?
And if you can make the time at all, rehearse everything. At the very least a brief run-through before the cameras roll. Even if your actors read the whole script, they might be mistaken about something. This is your chance to clear that up.
THE ACTUAL MOST IMPORTANT PART OF PRODUCTION
Sound.
Sound. Sound sound sound.
Sound is more important than visuals. None of what you wrote matters if we can’t hear what the people are saying.
Get as much sound as you can. Strap five mics to everybody. Have ten boom operators. Get an hour of room tone. Reserve an ADR setup now. This is not the reason you want people calling you the next Christopher Nolan.
Oh, and one last thing, have your most organized person doing script supervision, making some kind of document tracking continuity/shots/taking notes. I like Airtable, personally. It doesn’t seem important now but it will save you days in editing.
POST-PRODUCTION: BY THIS POINT YOU WILL HATE YOUR FILM
EDITING: JUST LET SOMEONE ELSE DO IT
Seriously. Directors shouldn’t edit their own footage. They will want to actually use it. If you want to know why most shorts are too slow, too long and filled with unnecessary nonsense, it’s because of directors editing their own footage. So many shorts are one edit, or, more likely, one editor, away from being watchable. For similar reasons, editors shouldn’t be on set.
If you don’t know an actual editor, swap with another director. Edit their movie and let them edit yours. A director who can actually handle their own footage is a rarity.
OK, assuming you followed (or defiantly ignored) that advice, you’re now sitting down at a keyboard and staring at a list of files. You’re probably also wishing you had a script supervisor marking the good takes on set like I suggested. If you’re editing a documentary, experimental film, or something else without a script, you’re probably ten seconds away from turning to either drugs or religion.
([Update 2023:] In the end, difficulties on editing boil down to two problems: You’ll either have too much footage, more than you can use... or not enough, less than you need. Being in the first situation sucks— it leads to a lot of headaches and hard choices and getting bogged down in multiple iterations— but it’s immensely better than being in the second. And annoyingly, I’ve seen a lot of films that were in the second situation and still turned out too long. A good editor can minimize the lack of footage problem, but it can really only be solved through reshoots.)
Editing is basically the same as writing, and not just because both will give you RSIs if you forget to take breaks. Once again, your primary job is to remove everything that isn’t necessary or interesting, and focus the story on everything that is.
Your secondary job is to not go insane from isolation and option paralysis.
One technique I’ve found useful in the past is to cut picture OR sound without worrying about the other. Hit that “mute” or “hide” button on the track and just focus on getting either a soundtrack that feels right or a series of images that cut together smoothly, then filling in the other to fit/match. It seems like more/unnecessary work but it’s actually less.
TINY SIDEBAR: The true editor knows why. The spooky zen secret of editing is this: you’re not actually working with sounds and images. Those are just raw ingredients. You, the editor, bring the heat and the spice and the presentation. Editing is the true heart and the true art of filmmaking: sculpting in time. The exact placement of cuts, the distance between them, the rhythm at which a sound comes in, are secretly more important than the actual content of them. Films aren’t Rembrandts, they’re Kandinskys. Just color and noise and movement, felt as much as thought. But somehow the director will still think they’re the one who matters.
But back to useful stuff for the normies. Some basics of editing:
Cut visuals on motion, rhythm, and continuity, not on dialogue or audio. Remember J-cuts. And reaction shots, assuming the director gave you any. If we can hear someone we don’t always need to look at them.
Mind the screen direction, who’s looking or moving right or left when. Your director should have got this right in their storyboard, but you know directors.
Inserts are 30% to show you stuff and 80% to hide cuts and changes in screen direction. The extra ten is because ideally they can do both.
When in doubt, the average shot length in a film is about three seconds. It used to be closer to four, now it’s closer to 2.5; technology has made it easier to cut faster.. But it’s been around three for the last hundred years.
It’s kinder to cut an actor out of a film than to leave them in giving a bad performance. Unfortunately, they always disagree, so be ready with an excuse. (Another good reason the director shouldn’t be doing the cutting.)
A 15-minute film shouldn’t have four minutes of credits. Four minutes is an entire film by itself. And if you think it’s OK to have both opening and closing credits with the same names in a short, I’ll remind you that public masturbation is illegal in most territories.
Similarly, if your three-minute film begins with a full sixty seconds of credits over meaningless insert shots of a generic coffee shop, you’re not done editing. Just take a minute, ask, do I actually need this shot or just like it. Extraneous information is confusion and boredom.
SPECIAL KEYBOARD-SHORTCUTS EDITING SIDEBAR
Most of being a professional, “fast” editor is memorizing and customizing keyboard shortcuts. So here’s Drew’s ten-second one that will help every beginner regardless of preferred software: Go into your keyboard shortcuts menu and make a single-key shortcut for “add edit” (i.e., actually put a cut into the footage where the playhead is. I use the “/“ (slash) key, which is a good choice (it’s memorable and its default function isn’t especially useful), but I’m left-handed, so you backwards people might consider the “B” key instead (the default for “B” is always the Blade tool, which is just a slower, clunkier, mouse-based way of doing the same thing).
This isn’t necessarily the best method of editing for everyone in every situation, but it is faster, more intuitive, and easier to learn then using markers or in and out points or dragging everything with the mouse like a psychopath.
One more: using a mouse will be easier than using a trackpad, even with a Mac.
MUSIC AND SOUND
We see with our eyes but we feel with our ears. Maybe it’s the roar of wind, maybe it’s “Eye of the Tiger,” maybe it’s the Hans Zimmer Brawwwmmm, but whatever it is, most of the emotion and atmosphere of the film is coming from the audio track. (This is why I said, many pages ago, that I can’t start shooting something until I know what it sounds like. Because it means I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like yet. This is also why people who talk during movies should have their citizenship revoked.)
Unfortunately, either because it comes at the end when everyone’s exhausted and trying to meet a deadline, or because they just don’t understand how much it matters, nearly everyone making shorts neglects the audio.
Next time you watch a short that didn’t move you, look out for something like “royaltyfreesoundfx.com” or “freefilmmusic.ru” in the credits. There’s no right answer on deciding when to work out your film’s music— before you write? before you shoot? during the edit?— but there is a wrong one, and that’s “at the last minute.”
It’s more understandable for music, at least. Film music is its own special beast; it has to play off the image in specific ways, it has to keep moving and developing with the scene in ways that pop music doesn’t. (What I’m secretly saying is, your friend’s band is not as good as you think they are— and even if they were, that’s not the same as knowing how to score a film.)
But sound effects? I’ll never understand why people download sound effects when it’s so much more fun to make your own. You want to drop in a file with bad timing and some jarringly wrong room tone? OK. I’ll be over here slashing axes into melons.
Like actors, qualified musicians and composers are not hard to find, they’re usually not that busy, and they’re used to working for nothing. Back up a truck to the nearest music school and drive off with as many as you can carry. It’s not that hard.
Finally, as you’re editing and mixing, keep in mind that our brains can follow about two sounds at once: music, sound fx, or speech. If you have three or more going at once (and if it’s music with audible lyrics, that counts as music and speech), we won’t be able to keep track.
At some point, find an elderly relative to watch your film and tell you if they can understand the dialogue. Even if they say yes, put together a subtitle/closed captions track. It’s the future. Everyone’s old and deaf now and speakers are somehow worse than they were in the Seventies. This is a basic accessibility feature, and it’s a trivial amount of time to spend to make your film comprehensible.
TITLES
Lifehack: If you put “a 48-hour film” in front of something, people will be impressed by the mere fact that your sound is in sync and your shots are all in focus. Just saying.
Good titles are really easy, you guys, and they can add a lot. The difference between titles that look amazing and titles that look like your teenage cousins’ iMovie is about twenty minutes of fiddling with fonts/ colors/ placements/ timing. If you don’t “get” fonts, ask your most annoying friend, we they will literally fix it just to stop looking at the bad version. I’ve seen million-dollar quality titles on films that were otherwise no-budget. Titles are easy.
THE INEVITABLE CONCLUSION
Now it’s over. It’s time to release your movie. At this point, the short is like your child: you will either love it more than it deserves or secretly hate and resent it. You will work very hard to get it in front of an audience, probably at a film festival, then get annoyed when that audience doesn’t respond exactly how you imagined.
You’ll see the same film play to uproarious laughs in one room and confused silence in another. People will tell you your parody brought them to tears or laugh at moments that were meant sincerely. This is because real people are insane and terrifying, not because you did anything wrong.
There will be a Q&A. You’ll stand in a line of other filmmakers whose shorts you sat through and internally judged for being too long or for not doing something else you never cared about before reading in this post, and you’ll feel guilty now that you’re standing next to them and reminded they were real people. People will ask you questions about your film. Because these are the people both crazy enough to watch short films and uninhibited enough to talk to strangers, the questions will be… weird. Don’t take them too seriously. But inevitably, be ready, because there will always be the same one:
“What are you working on next?”
END MATTER
TOP TEN ELEVEN
I wrote this embryonic, condensed version of this post in July 2021 to share before a timed film contest. Do you want to read what is essentially the short, lazy, pass-fail version of the longer piece? Here it is:
1. The only three things you need to do to make something great: Be clear. Be interesting. Be honest. Luckily, honesty is rare enough that its mere presence is usually interesting.
2. Every good film (or any other artwork) tells you what it is and how to watch it. With the length of a short, that needs to be done immediately: we should know what we’re about to watch— setting, tone, subject/focus, theme— all by the end of the opening shot.
3. The first shot is vital for another reason: film watching is an act of faith. Make a good first impression and we’ll ignore your missteps later. Make a bad enough one and we’ll start rooting against you.
4. And however many shots you think you need, you need half that many. Theater tells all kinds of stories in one “shot”; radio with none. Be careful of extraneous information (while they may be delicious, you may not know that many shellfish species are considered “biologically immortal” because they don’t age), because even if you like a shot or line of dialogue, in context it can often confuse the viewer and do more harm then good. For this reason and a few others, directors shouldn’t edit their own footage. Everything in a film should be either necessary or interesting, but ideally, they should be both.
5. Have ambition. Why is this film unlike every other film ever?
6. Think about why you want to tell this story, then think about what is actually interesting about this story to anyone who isn’t you. It’s not enough to pour your soul into something, you also need to make sure it doesn’t leak out.
7. Characters are more interesting than concepts or situations; this is human nature. Interesting characters are people who do interesting things, not bland people in interesting situations. And throwing in murder, suicide, drugs, or guns won’t make them interesting (Similarly, making a short about Serious Issues is not the same as taking your short— or the issues— seriously.)
8. Twist endings aren’t worth the effort. Don’t “surprise” me with a twist that was probably a cliché anyway, surprise me by showing me things I haven’t seen before. Do it from second one and all the way to the credits, ideally.
9. Realism is generally a waste of time, and shorts don’t have time to waste. You can spend all the money in the world, get your period costumes perfect, spend hours building sets and putting up lights, and two moderately funny people riffing dumb jokes will probably be more entertaining.
10. No one thinks about sound enough and no one thinks about music at all. We see with our eyes but we feel with our ears. You can do better than some random “classical” piece you found on freefilmmusic.ru
And…
11. You’ve undoubtedly thought of a hundred exceptions to all these rules. I’m still right. Follow them anyway.
A CHECKLIST FOR SHORTS
Remember, “I don’t know” is a perfectly acceptable answer to any of these questions. At this point the most you’re wasting is paper and ink.
BEFORE WRITING:
Is this a concept I’m interested in?
Can I describe in a few sentences why I’m interested in it?
Can I describe in a few sentence why I think total strangers might be interested in it?
What about another total stranger, different in every way from the first?
Did I actually write those sentences down to use for my draft later or just answer “yes” in my head to the previous 2.5 questions?
Do I feel like my idea is new or original? Why?
Have I checked?
Do I feel like a good person to handle this subject matter?
Do I feel knowledgable enough about the subject to present it in an honest and interesting way?
If “no,” how can I change that?
Do I feel like if I don't make a short about this subject, no one else will (or will do it correctly)?
Does my story feel like a good fit for short film?
How long of one? (spoiler: your answer here will turn out to be wrong)
Does it feel like an excerpt or a setup for a larger project?
Does it feel like I might have to compress or oversimplify things in a way that may hurt my characters/plot/themes?
Do I have specific ideas for how to tell this story? (Hint: the answer is always “yes”)
Have I written them down yet?
Are there specific things I want to see or put in this short? Or things I want the viewer to think or feel about the subject?
Have I written them down yet?
If my film is gonna have characters, do I have a good sense of who they are and why they’re interesting?
Is what’s interesting something they’re doing DURING THE STORY, not something offscreen?
Do I have a good sense of what the story is thematically about?
Are there any pitfalls or things I’m worried about getting wrong with this plot or subject matter? (If “yes,” now you know to avoid them)
Have I looked for or watched shorts about this or a similar subject, to see things I might want to do or not do?
Have I talked to people about what they might want to see in a short about this topic, and noted/considered their answers?
Is there something else I’d secretly rather be making instead? (If “yes,” return to top of this list)
WHILE PLOTTING/ PREWRITING:
Have I written down everything I want to include?
Is everything in order? Does that order emphasizes the theme/character/ideas I want to focus on?
Is this the “good part” of the story or might that be something else?
Is there a simpler/faster/easier-to-follow way to tell this story? If I’m not doing it that way, is there a specific reason why?
How much of the plot is summarized just by the title?
Do I have a plot twist? Is the twist going to energize viewers or annoy them? Has the twist been done before? Have I double-checked that?
What happens if I start with the twist? Could I instead expand and develop that idea in a way audiences wouldn’t expect?
From whose point-of-view are we seeing scenes and events? (i.e., Whose feelings are we feeling? Who is “us” and who is a stranger?) If it changes, when does that happen and why?
Do I feel like the plot gives chances to fully utilize elements of the style or genre I’m working in? (Examples: how much does my sci-fi story show off it’s imagined future world; does my animation have characters that look and move in fun ways).
AFTER THE FIRST DRAFT
Does my short begin, from the first shot, in a way that sets up what’s to come?
Is that opening also interesting?
Is the plot structure clear? Is the timeline clear?
Is EVERYTHING— every scene, every paragraph, every description, every line of dialogue, every image— either necessary to tell the story, or so interesting on its own that I want to leave it in anyway?
Start crossing things out until the answer is “yes”, then continue down this list.
Is everything in the short “filmable,” that is, can all the information in this sentence/paragraph be translated directly into a visual image? Would it be clear to a reader what that image is? (This is less important in a short with a small crew than a big production, but it’s still a hallmark of good scriptwriting)
Is it clear which characters are the important ones, and how different characters are inter-related with each other?
What character’s POV is each scene/moment from? If it switches, when does it switch?
Do my character(s) do interesting things? How long does it take for them to do it? If it’s late, how can I make it earlier?
Is every line of dialogue as good as it can be? Does every line of dialogue express character—for instance, could I imagine a totally different character saying the exact same words?
Could any line also be improved in ither ways: to be made more concise to tie in my themes better, or to fit the tone and setting better (for example, to be more stylized or more realistic)?
Does any line seem like it may be difficult for an actor today out loud? Have I tried to say them myself?
If no to any of the above, is that choice deliberate and why am I making it?
Are there lines that are essentially just needlessly repeating earlier lines?
Are there lines of dialogue that might be better replaced by visuals?
As an experiment, what would this script look like with no dialogue at all?
Do I have an idea, from reading this, of how this story will look, AND feel, AND sound? Do I as the writer have that idea but it’s not actually in the script?
Are there themes or recurring ideas in this that I hadn’t realized when I started?
Does it feel like this story is saying something(s)? Is it something I don’t want, don’t like, or don’t agree with?
Do all of the themes feel like they’re being handled seriously and responsibly? Is there anything in my short that may unintentionally mislead or misinform people?
Am I being honest in what I’m saying, or propagandistic— intentionally distorting or misrepresenting people in a way I know is cheap, lazy, and unfair?
Does it feel like I’m compressing things, leaving out details, or stretching them out to fit a certain length?
Is my script as "bad actor proof" as I can make it?
When I get to the end, do I feel a story is over or like I need to see more?
For instance, are there stakes that are introduced and not “paid off”?
Can I include whatever that “more” is?
Has another human read my script and shared their opinion?
PREPRODUCTION
Have I assembled a crew in which everyone knows their specific job and responsibilities?
Do I have a backup plan if anyone is unavailable? This includes actors as well as crew.
Have at least some of the people on the crew read my script?
Somewhere, is there a comprehensive document listing all the people/places/equipment/things required to complete my film?
Have I used this to create my budget?
If possible, can I get multiples of props/costumes, or backups of equipment? (Expect this to be “no”)
Go through the storyboard. Is every shot necessary and/or interesting?
Do I know which shots are the most important if I can’t get them all?
Does my first shot set the stage appropriately for what’s about to happen next?
OK, now what about my second, and my third, and...
Does it seem like my shots “flow” together, for instance have I paid attention to not creating jarring shifts in movement or screen direction? Do I know where shots will overlap to create an action match in editing?
What is the story reason I want to move the camera here/use handheld/make this shot a dutch angle? Why do I want to shoot in black and white/on film so badly? Exactly why do I want to shoot in a 2.35/ fake IMAX/ 4:3/ vertical video ratio?
Do I have a shot list?
Looking at my shot list, is there a way to cut some of these shots right now?
Have I scheduled my day so I can actually fit in all those shots?
No, you haven't. Cut some stuff right now.
Do I know which shots would make a good poster/hero image/thumbnail.
If those are additional shots not in the film, have I made sure to include them in the schedule?
Do I have a plan if I need to do reshoots?
Does this location help to tell the story?
If “no,” will the audience really care?
Is it new/unique/interesting? Is it distracting?
Does it seem like it will be feasible to shoot at?
Can you get clearances and permission to shoot there? If I need to do re-shoots, will it still be available?
Does it present sound or lighting problems?
Is it far for people to travel? Where will people park?
Will we have power for our equipment?
What happens if it rains or in other bad weather?
Where is the nearest hospital or medical facility if there’s an accident?
Is there a place to set up craft services/ for people to take breaks? For the actors to get in-costume?
How are the bathrooms?
Is it so good it might be worth the trade-offs on those other things?
(How) can I modify my location for the shoot, for example moving furniture, unplugging electronics, blocking windows?
Have I done test shots at your location?
Do we have a backup location if the first falls through?
Have we tested all the equipment?
Do I have everything on my production list?
Have I worked out what I’m feeding everybody?
REHEARSALS
Have I budgeted time for rehearsals?
Have I talked with all my actors about how they work best and planned my shoot accordingly?
Are my actors clear on the story and how everything will be shot? (Don’t assume they read the whole script, or understood it perfectly if they did.)
If there’s a complicated camera move, can I rehearse some verion of that along with the actors?
ON SET
Have I found and copied a set safety checklist (because none of that is covered on the list below, and it’s more important)?
Is someone tracking continuity? Do I understand the system they’re using?
One last check: can I take out some shots to create more time?
Looking around, do I want to get inserts of anything for editing?
Is everyone being professional? Is anyone being a problem? Is that person me?
Am I yelling?
Is our sound good? Are all the mics set up and recording properly?
Is the lens cap off? Is the shot properly focused?
Did I slate?
Did I leave a bit of “handle” on either end of the shot to give the editor more freedom?
Did we get room tone?
Do we need another take? Do I know exactly what needs to be different, and how to communicate that to everyone? If not, how do I fake it?
Should we get one more for safety?
Am I emotionally prepared to cut everything I shot today?
FIRST EDIT
Do I understand, from the script, storyboard, and supervisor’s notes, where to start cutting this all together? (if “no,” find someone who can tell you)
Does the first shot set the stage appropriately for what’s about to happen next? OK, now what about the second, and the third, and...
Is there something else that might make a better opening?
Do I have the music we’re going to use yet? If not, do I want to use temp music or nothing?
Go thru the editing timeline. Is every shot here necessary and/or interesting?
Do these shots flow visually without the aid of the audio?
Does this soundtrack sell the mood and the story without picture?
Is the screen direction consistent?
SUBSEQUENT EDITING PASSES
Watching it through, ignoring the script/storyboard/any previous plans what are the best things about this footage?
How can we emphasize this aspect better as we go forward?
Is it possible we need re-shoots or additional footage? Of what?
(How) can I cut around or remove the parts that aren't working, like a bad performance or shot?
(How) does this work without the narration?
Is there more that’s unnecesary I can remove?
Have I levelled out the audio so nothing's too loud or quiet?
Have I tested the audio with an audience?
Does my film contain flashing lights or strobing effects that may cause seizures? Can these be removed, and, if not, have I included a warning at the head of the film?
Can I improve the titles (or find someone else who will)?
Do the credits really need to be this long? How many times does one person’s name need to appear (hint: once)?
Have I done the subtitle/closed-captions track?
Have I checked my exported file to make sure it plays correctly?
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𝙈𝙀𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙅𝘼𝘾𝙊𝘽𝙎𝙀𝙎. | 𝙠𝙖𝙧𝙡 𝙟𝙖𝙘𝙤𝙗𝙨 (18+)
edit by @raeganlolz <3
∘ requests: I tried to use as many as I could that made sense! Hope you enjoy!
“the things i’d do to meet edgy karl’s parents.”
“ok but next time you want to write smut for edgy!karl...post pregnancy scare...karl having a fixation on readers tiddies...like the whole time. -🧚🏻♀️”
“i stg this is my last thing ill send in today about edgy!karl but karl letting reader dom him completely.-🧚🏻♀️”
“CONSIDER edgy!Karl saying ‘that's my girl’”
∘ pairing: edgy!Karl Jacobs x fm!reader
∘ warnings: nsfw (minors dni), mentions of underaged sex, asphyxiation, domination, this being 4k
∘ word count: ~4000 (im so sorry)
∘ links: 𐐪 ao3 𐑂 𐐪 previous part 𐑂 𐐪 submit an edgy!karl edit 𐑂
∘ disclaimer: I made up all the dynamics and Karl lore. This is also an au and I do what I want so
You rolled your shoulders, twisting your back to alleviate some of the stress in your back as your mind raced at the possible outcomes of spending the weekend at Karl’s parent’s place. He seemed to deal with the situation in his own way, a cigarette lazily hanging from his lips as he scrubbed the nail polish from his fingers. You wondered if his parents were sticklers for order, then again, knowing Karl, there was no way they weren’t crazy strict. You thought about your own family and what would happen if Karl were to meet your mother.
Karl seemed almost absent-mindedly going through the motions of visiting them like you had nothing to worry about. There were occasions when he even made it clear that you had your life more intact than he did, so it was doubtful they would hate you.
You peered over at him, taking your eyes off the road momentarily as he paused to blow smoke out of his window. “Why do you have to take it off?” You asked, gesturing to his hands.
He scoffed slightly, sitting up and throwing the dirty cotton ball into the small bag beside him. “My mom hates the dark colors,” he murmured, flicking his cigarette bud outside. He moved a hand to settle over your thigh, wrapping his fingers around the flesh. “Don’t worry, I’ll paint them again when we get back,” he chided. “I know it’s the only reason you keep me around.”
You snorted at this, shaking your head at his joke.
The two of you came to a small stop-over town, swapping seats after filling up the tank at the local gas station. Through the crack in the passenger window, you could hear the cashier greeting Karl as if they were old friends, smacking him on the back and walking him out the door with a smile. As Karl sank into the driver’s seat you furrowed your brows. He looked at you with a shrug. “We vacation around here sometimes,” he brushed off, making your mouth twist in disbelief. He was downplaying the extent of his family’s hold over the town.
As the two of you drove through the main street of the town, your eyes snapped to the various stores with his last name plastered on the signs. You nearly asked him about it, instead opting out as you figured he would give you a half-assed answer and only give you part of the story.
His house had its own street, a long winding road that ended in a looped driveway the size of a suburban cold-de-sac. You willed yourself not to let your mouth gape at the sheer size of the mansion as it stared back at you, blocking the moonlight as Karl opened the passenger door for you to climb out. “Stop treating me like the fucking Queen of England,” you murmured, elbowing him as he pulled on his hoodie, shaking out his hair slightly.
He laughed at you, popping a piece of gum in his mouth, and pressing his lips to yours in a nearly heated kiss as if to give you a taste of what he had in store of you. As he broke the embrace, his nose brushed against yours. “I can treat you worse if you want, pet?” He offered, causing you to shove him away from you.
“We are literally in your parents’ driveway. Chill out,” you urged, making him chuckle as he laced his fingers with yours, pulling you towards the front door. Your heart hammered in your ears as he pushed open the door. You tugged on his arm. “Shouldn’t we knock first?” You whispered, making him pop his gum and shrug.
As if telling you not to worry, he pulled you the rest of the way in the house, only to be greeted with an old man barely reaching over your height. “Karl! My god, you nearly scared the living daylights outta me!” He hooted, as Karl wrapped his arm around the old man, the two chattering away like the best of friends.
You smiled at the warmth between the two, watching Karl blossom. He moved to stand by you, wrapping his arm around your waist and gesturing to the man. “This is my nanny, Leslie. He wouldn’t leave so I think he just dusts the books in one of the libraries,” Karl joked, making the man swat the air in front of Karl.
You raised your eyebrows. “One of the libraries?” You repeated quietly as if to make sure you heard him correctly.
He smirked at you, disregarding your surprise. “This is my girlfriend,” he introduced, rather proudly as Leslie’s face lit up. He grabbed your hands and rambled on about how he had never thought Karl would introduce a girlfriend to the family.
“I thought I heard Karl’s voice. Did he make it?” A feminine tone rang out into the foyer, capturing Karl’s attention a beat before she had started talking as if he had sensed her. You wanted to smirk at the vision, knowing he did the same when he heard you.
A woman came around the corner of one of the walls, her hair and makeup applied to a professional standard and her clothes were cleanly pressed. She looked as if she had just gotten home from an office job with a corner office. Her intimidating aura vanished along with his as soon as she saw him, scooping him up in her arms as he chuckled slightly. She held him out an arm’s length away, pinching his sides and calling him a beanstalk. Another man a few years older than Leslie entered the room, draped in a flowery apron. He embraced Karl as well, the couple fawning over him like they hadn’t seen him in years.
Karl gestured for you to come closer as he showed you off to the pair, introducing them as his parents. Karl’s mom immediately embraced you, murmuring about how Karl hadn’t brought a girl home in ages let alone a girlfriend and you were quickly being to notice a theme amongst the group.
The house was massive, which you had quickly noticed was even bigger than it looked outside, as Karl’s mother looped her arm around yours, giving you the tour and explaining the extensive history of the Jacobs family and their impact on the house. Leslie and she served as some of the most entertaining tour guides you’d ever experienced as they giggling and joked. Karl walked quietly behind the group of you, hands in his pockets as he looked up at the ceilings and pictures as if he hadn’t seen them a thousand times growing up.
You peered over your shoulder, making sure he was still with the rest of you. He set you a wink, lips curling at the sight of you getting along with his family members.
After you were finally beginning to lose track of time Karl broke into the charade, and after vaguely mentioning he was tired, his mother when into a mock cuddling mode, cooing to him sarcastically, yet letting the two of you slink away for the night with the promise of finishing the tour before Karl’s brother showed up in the morning.
Soon it was just you and Karl again, him leading you up a flight of stairs. The hallways were lit with small lanterns that at one time had probably fostered candles but were now replaced with electric ones. You weren’t sure where to look as the walls were crammed with painting and photographs. Half of you wanted to admire the architecture while the rest of you was attempting to identify who the artist was that had done most of the artwork.
Karl sighed tiredly, popping open a door and switching on the lights. You bit back a smile at the view of his room in its pristine condition. The various shades of blues and greys accenting the features of his bed and various pieces of furniture. As you looked around, he threw his wallet and keys onto the dresser beside his bed, shutting the door to drown out the faint music coming from the kitchen. You sat in one of the massive chairs beside the fireplace, your mind running blank with disbelief. A fire was already burning in anticipation of his return.
You ran your finger along the seam in the leather. “When you said your family had money… I didn’t picture all,” you paused gesturing around you, “… this…”
He shrugged with a small smile on his face. “Do you wanna know a little piece of Karl lore?” He asked, smugly.
You perked your eyebrows at his words. “You know I do.”
He gestured with his fingers for you to come towards him as he walked closer to one of the massive windows. He settled his hand in the crook of your neck, turning you to look across the pond at a few of the other massive properties. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder before pointing at one directly in front of you. “I lost my virginity in that one,” he stated, making you chuckle.
He wrapped his arms around your waist. “And to whom?” You queried, as his teeth nipped at your ear.
You could practically hear him smirk. “Her name was Ms. Scarlet back then, but I think she’s been married again,” he answered, making you freeze in his hold. “I think she was between husband two and three.”
“Wait, what?” You turned around to face him.
He brushed his lips against yours. “You jealous?”
You furrowed your brows at him, pulling out of his touch. “Were you of age?” You questioned, voice coming out in almost a winded laugh.
He shrugged, plopping down on the bed behind him, leaning his weight back on his hands. “Not the first time.” He smiled up at you. “She’s a friend of mine’s mom. I cut her grass that summer.”
You rubbed your eyes. “Jesus Christ,” you murmured. “Did you hook up again after that?” It was like he had opened Pandora’s box, a mass of questions echoing like bees within your mind.
He looked at the ceiling. “We stopped before my sophomore year of college, I think.” He furrowed his brows in thought. “Yeah, so almost five years.” Your mouth gapped slightly. “But only when I came back for breaks.”
“You were seventeen?” You stressed. “And when you came back from where?” You sat beside him, attempting to decide if you should be worried or not. Obviously, it wasn’t a fact you could change, but the fact that a woman had him at so young-
He hummed slightly. “Boarding school,” he mumbled, trying not to seem smug. He wrapped his arm around your waist. “I know it sounds bad now, but she wasn’t taking advantage of me or anything,” he assured. “I think you’d like her, honestly.”
“You think I’d like a woman that preys on little boys?” He snorted at your comment and you smacked his chest, making him laugh louder.
He dug his face into your neck. “Age of consent is lower here,” he continued to assure. “Baby, I’m okay.” His teeth nipped at your skin. “Plus, I don’t think I’d know how to make you feel so good without her.” That made you green around the gills. You attempted to put the thought of Karl and an older woman out of your mind. “How did you lose yours?”
You swallowed your questions, deciding to save them for another day. “In a treehouse before I left for college. With my roommate’s twin brother,” you murmured.
He chuckled. “Oh, shit. We’re both bad friends, aren’t we?” He jested.
You shook your head, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I was dating him, actually. It was really brief.”
“The sex or the relationship?” He asked, making two gesture two fingers into the air. He pulled away from you, sending you a small smile. “And what’s his name? I need to know who you’re comparing me to.”
You scoffed. “Clay,” you answered, the image of the boy flashing into your mind for an instant.
Karl’s demeanor changed. “Clay?” He repeated, sounding like you earlier as you wrapped your brain around the extent of the Jacobs fortune. “What does that seem so familiar…” he trailed off in thought. You perked your eyebrow at him, knowing full-well the two could have unintentionally crossed paths on campus.
The next morning, you could have sworn you were on the set of a period piece if it weren’t for Karl’s father’s golfing attire and his mother’s tight black dress as they welcomed various family members into the house. You had finally met Karl’s older brother, an accomplished man with a good job and an even more impressive education, yet each time he attempted to boast about his earnings or the progress he was bringing to the family business, he was swatted off only for his parents to gloat about Karl’s fraternity connections and grades.
You peered over Karl’s shoulder as he showed you Todd’s Instagram post, the two of you scoffing before you liked his picture from your account, making Karl roll his eyes as you snickered.
“… And that being said, renting cars is no longer a strenuous task,” Karl’s brother finished.
Mrs. Jacobs nodded her head slightly. Karl had mentioned the family joke of disregarding what his brother said, even if it was impressive or you were interested. It had been a running gag since Karl was in high school and they weren’t planning on letting up anytime soon. “Yeah, that’s neat. Did you hear Karl learned how to do his own laundry?” His mom boasted with a small chirp to her voice as if Karl were the best thing on the planet.
You bit back a laugh as his brother grumbled to himself, his wife patting his arm reassuringly. “He was also one of the most expensive at KA. Very impressive son!” His dad added, sending him a thumbs up.
You stood with Karl in the living room; his arm draped around the top of a bookshelf you were leaning against as you both listened to one of his cousins talk about a new boat they had just paid off.
Your heels felt tight on your feet as you switched the weight from one ankle to the other, leaning closer to Karl. He moved so his lips were near your ear. “Don’t let him fool you. It’s a hollowed-out log with a rudder,” he chided, making the corner of your mouth twist up.
“It’s not much, but it’s honest,” you mockingly defended. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”
“Inexplicably,” he murmured back, making you laugh quietly. He let a beat of silence pass between the two of you before wetting his lips. “Say the word and we’ll find a random room and I’ll ruin your makeup,” he whispered.
You scoffed, inching closer to him while your eyes remained on the center of the room where everyone was talking. “How can you be horny around your family?”
You could feel his warm breath against your neck. “Because I’m more focused on you in that tight little dress than Kevin’s boat.”
You took a sip from your cup. “Dirty boy,” you joshed quietly.
Karl smirked at you before his eyes drifted to the front door, a new flow of people filing into the house. You noticed him grow quiet, following his gaze to a woman and a boy around your age. They greeted Karl’s parents happily before integrating into the living room with the rest of you. You could tell by the way his face twisted smugly that the woman was Ms. Scarlet. You drew in a breath as she neared the two of you.
Karl stood up a bit straighter and you bit back a laugh, making a mental note on having to tease him about his MILF. The woman smiled brightly at Karl, pinching his cheek. You attempted to piece together who the boy was and if Karl had mentioned him before.
Karl cleared his throat after they shared their pleasantries. “Uh, this is Nick, but everyone calls him Sapnap, and this is his mom… Ms. Scarlet?” He questioned the last part as she charmingly laughed.
“Oh, no darling. I’m Mrs. Donahue now.” Sapnap rolled his eyes slightly at her words, taking a sip of his drink as she winked at him.
Karl smirked. “Right, congratulations. Anyway, they’ve been our neighbors for years-”
She cut him off, squeezing his arm. “Oh, come on! We were trying to marry Karl off to one of Nick’s cousins and finally join the families, but it’s just funny how things work out,” she stated. You wracked your brain, attempting to figure out if it was a dig at you or Karl. The two of them went off on a tangent about the array of Sapnap’s cousins that Karl had had to take on dates and whatnot.
“So, you’re dating Karl then?” Sapnap asked you, more of an aside as they had seemed to forget about you.
You nodded; the fact still rather foreign to you when given the chance to think about it. “Yeah, I’ll claim him,” you joked. “Did you guys go to the same high school?” You asked, attempting conversation.
He looked at you tiredly. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve been classmates since we were little.” You hummed in interest. “I mean, since he fucked my mom we haven’t been hanging out or anything,” he added as if you had been itching to ask.
You had been.
You snorted at his words as he smiled slightly. “Sorry, that’s not funny,” you apologized, covering your mouth.
He shook his head, laughing softly. “No, it definitely is, don’t worry.”
“How did, uh… that affect you guys?” You asked, biting back your humorous response.
He seemed to relax from his stiffened introduction a few minutes prior. He wet his lips. “Honestly, there’s no going back from that, you know?”
You giggled. “No, I don’t.”
He laughed at your answer, covering it with a cough as Karl seemed to remember you were standing beside him. Sapnap’s mom suddenly spotted an old friend of hers, the two parting from your life almost as quickly as they had entered. You leaned against Karl’s arm.
“I like Sapnap,” you hummed, watching the two leave. “He seems quiet.” Karl shrugged beside you. Your mind wandered to whether Sapnap knew Todd. Part of you wished you had asked him, but you were struggling to remember Todd’s real name anyway. “Did you have fun with your lady friend?” You mocked, looking up at him.
He shook his head, biting back a smirk. “You’re my lady friend.”
You chuckled. “Oh? I thought you’d forgotten.”
Before you knew it, you were pressed against Karl in a coat closet in a remote part of the house, unable to make it to his room before his hands were up your skirt and his lips were attacking your skin. He pinned you against the door as if he were worried you would slip out of his grasp as he ground his hips against yours. His teeth grazed against your neck in a mess of hands and hair.
You pushed him further into the closet before he plopped down in a chair towards the back. The both of you shared a look of confusion as to why it was there yet shrugged and went back to carding your fingers through his hair and tugging at his lips with your own. He moaned into your mouth as you climbed into his lap, his hands gripping the flesh of your thighs before snaking up to slip into the top of your dress and take your breast into one of his large hands.
Kissing him felt strange without his tongue ring; if you weren’t so desperate to get yourself off, you would have complained about missing it.
You ground yourself on his lap, groaning at your newfound friction as he spread his legs further for you, his free hand dragging you against his crotch. You pressed your lips against his neck, biting at the skin, determined to mark him as yours. You weren’t doing it to ward off Ms. Scarlet, no. This was for you, knowing full well that Karl always wore your hickeys with pride.
Your hands went to his belt buckle, impatience taking over as you nipped at his skin, earning moans of pleasure as he let you have your way with him. He pressed his lips to your chest as you freed his cock from its cloth entrapment, stroking him with your hand. “Give me your panties,” he whispered, breathlessly as he hooked his fingers around your waistband. You obliged before angling him at your entrance and sinking down onto him. The two of you let out moans of pleasure, swallowing each other’s appraisal.
The air grew warm around the two of you as you began to roll your hips against him. Your head tilting back as you tried to quiet yourself down, knowing the last thing you wanted was for someone to walk in… again.
Karl’s fingers moved to unzip your dress, exposing your chest to his mouth as your fingers moved to tug at his dark locks. He ground his hips up into yours, a thankful moan slipping past your lips as his tongue pressed against the valley between your breasts.
You pushed him against the back of the chair, capturing his lips against your and slipping your tongue into his mouth. He completely submitted to your actions, wanting nothing more than to taste you as you began to ride him harder. Your nails dug into the back of the chair, your other hand moving to unbutton the top of his shirt and wrap around his neck. “Is she better than me?” You asked; your breath husky and demanding as his teeth flashed back at you, his leering smirk mixing with his blissed-out expression as he tried not to roll his eyes at how good he felt with you taking all of him.
“N-no. Of course not,” he groaned. His lips were pink from your teeth, cheeks flushed with lust and adrenaline as his blunt nails raked up your body to claw at your back. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he moaned, voice almost a whimper.
You moved your hand to press your thumb to brush against his bottom lip, loving the pleasured expression on his face as he looked at you like you owned him. “Good,” you answered plainly, swirling your hips and tightening your grip on his neck before you could feel your impending orgasm nearly within reach. He almost smiled up at you. What a little freak.
You moved your hand to fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him up to press your lips against his as you bounced on top of him. He let out a deep moan before you felt him release, making you scoff sardonically. His fingers moved to grip your hips, thrusting against you harder, determined to get you to follow him. You dug your face into the crook of his neck, his teeth digging into your skin.
Shamelessly, you let him drag you over the edge, your orgasm ripping through you with a flash of heat and relief. Karl kissed you roughly, desperate to taste your moans as if looking for your approval. "That's my girl," he moaned, smiling against your lips.
As the two of you straightened your clothing and cleaned up your appearances, you went for your underpants in Karl’s pocket, but he grabbed your wrist, drawing you to his chest. “You got to be on top, that means I’m in charge of foreplay for the rest of the night,” he answered, pressing a brief and sultry kiss against your lips to wipe away your shocked expression.
“Fine, then I’m in charge when we get back and I’ll send lewds to Todd,” you threatened with an empty conscious on the matter. “Just to make it spicy. Stir it up a bit,” you joshed.
He groaned, making you smirk. “You’re playing with fire,” he mumbled.
Tag List:
@mrwinemaker @madsbbg @idiotinnit @xxtakechancesxx @chxrrymilkshake @westyywifee @kiritokunuwu @theholycakehole @itgetsatadhazy
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𝕱𝖎𝖗𝖊 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖍𝖔𝖑𝖊
𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯; todoroki shouto
𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔡 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱; 1.8k
𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰; sex toy (egg vibrator), public sex, slight exhibitionism, dry humping, implied edging, cursing, cumming in pants, dom!reader, sub!character
𝔬𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔰; I tried keeping the reader as gender-neutral as possible, Todoroki just wants you to know how much he loves you, so if wearing a vibrator makes you happy so be it, if this were the first time Todoroki were doing this he wouldn’t have shamelessly allowed himself to cum, aka I’m thinking about doing something with this AU I guess
𝔰𝔦𝔡𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔱𝔢; This is for 🍦 anon’s ask about either Todoroki or Aizawa wearing a vibrator in a meeting. I decided to make him the son of CEO Endeavor, so this is a modern AU. There could be some errors around here, but I’ll check it out later. Sorry for the horrible title
Todoroki loves you; he truly does.
Even at the beginning of your relationship, while he still had difficulties in trusting you entirely and accidentally brushed you aside in fear of being too attached or clingy, he’s always known he loves you.
He loves you in the mornings when you wake him up with such a tired yet peaceful expression.
He loves you in the afternoons when you’re cooking dinner in the weird apron Mina gave you as a housewarming gift. (Why cheetah prints?)
He loves you in the night when you massage his shoulders after a treacherous meeting gone south too fast, easing words of adoration and affirmation into his mind while you’re sporting a funky looking face mask.
He loves you anywhere, anytime, however you look, however you talk… He’ll do anything to keep you happy and know about his unlimited love and respect for you.
Even if it means he has to wear an egg vibrator inside of him during his dad’s meeting. The very meeting where it’ll be decided if his dad’s company merges with some young entrepreneur’s named Keigo or something. He can’t seem to remember.
Not like he really cares, anyways. He doesn’t want to inherit his dad’s company. But Touya decided to spite their father by starting up his own, Fuyumi seems pretty happy being an elementary school teacher and Natsuo is busy being a doctor.
God, the only great thing to come out of inheriting this lame company is that he’ll get to see you every day, any day, all the time.
You’re one of his dad’s best logistician coordinators, and while no one in this meeting room know you two have been dating for much longer than your professional career, he’s certain that your horrible rendition of a relaxed façade will raise eyebrows at why him, the youngest Todoroki offspring, is trembling under your stare.
It’s kind of weird bringing something usually done in the bedroom and displaying it secretly in public. Even more weird considering the room is full of older people, except for him, you, that Keigo guy, some secretaries from both companies…
Where was he getting at again?
Oh, right.
The egg vibrator in his ass being controlled by your evil hands (and cellphone) buzzing so teasingly in him, he can’t remember the young entrepreneur’s name. Or the reason why he’s even willingly here in the first place.
He’s trying so hard to keep himself quiet, knowing how god awfully vocal he can get when teased or played with just right. He’s pretty sure his bottom lip is really close to bleeding, or already is. And his palms situated on the dark oak and, in your opinion, ridiculously high-priced table surely have deep dents of his fingernails, maybe some accidental scratches.
O-oh no!
“Shouto? Are… you alright?”
Shit, did he say that out loud?
“Yes, and refrain from vulgar language.”
Todoroki let go of his lip, blinking at his father as he raised an eyebrow. Or so he hopes he did.
“I’m fine. Stop worrying about me, old man.” And he’s never felt so happy hearing his father’s resigned sigh before the meeting continues. It’s unusual for the man to drop a conversation.
His joy doesn’t last for long: the vibrator in his ass is suddenly more intense than a few seconds ago, reminding him why he even spoke out loud.
Pressing his thighs together in hopes it’ll help lessen the buzzing he can finally hear, he looks across the table to give you what is meant as a curious look, but ends up just making him look completely lost.
Was it a slip of your thumb? Was it a punishment? But why punish him if he’s doing this for you? Had he been bad?
Did he miss something when you two spoke about it during breakfast? Wait, was your toast too burnt-
“Ah-” He gasped in surprise, with a frantic and scared look in his eyes. The rhythm of the vibrations changed into one that wasn’t as constant, but it’s still very, very pleasurable. Reminds him of his heartbeat when you milk another fast handjob out of him before he has to meet up with his father.
“Shouto, are you sure you’re alri-”
“Y-yes, father. I’m f-fine. L-leg cra-amp.” Well, it could’ve come out less coherent, but it’s the best he can speak with gritted teeth and tense shoulders, all while holding back his embarrassing whimpers. It’s enough, again, to make the elder Todoroki look away from his ‘agonizing’ son, soon wondering if these meetings are beginning to bore and wear out the young future CEO and soon make him feel a familiar fear he had when Touya-
But who cares about Enji’s worries and concerns when you have a trembling Shouto Todoroki, whose face is beginning to turn as red as half his hair and eyes as wet as his bottom lip after being bitten mercilessly. You’re sure you can see some red, probably dug his teeth too much and tore the skin a little, but it’s pretty swollen regardless. Maybe his dick is too?
Oh! What if you suck his dick under the table?
No, then everyone will know how he’s so smitten with you, just some random logistician coordinator instead of some offspring of another CEO. Funny how the supervisors care more about Shouto’s relationship status than his own father.
So, maybe just switching back to the rhythm being a continuous hum and finish dragging your thumb up the screen so that the toy can reach its greatest ability?
Too easy, let’s drag it out a little.
But Todoroki won’t let you, not with how he’s caressing your exposed ankle with his shoe, eyes staring pathetically into yours, mouthing “need to, need to, need to”.
So soon? You’ve barely had your fun. You can’t blame him entirely, either.
That morning, the moment you showed him the vibrator you bought for him to wear, he was already whimpering softly, moaning pleas into your neck between every kiss, all while he pressed his hard on against your thigh.
But you didn’t let him do anything to get rid of it, sending him off to get ready, even if he left whining. (He knows better than to throw a tantrum.)
Maybe he’s still sensitive after making him hump your thigh before the meeting?
Yeah, definitely.
It’s pleasant to remember his whimpers of embarrassment that soon turned into soft moans of gratitude, letting you take control of how fast he goes and how hard, all while listening to you explain the toy as he tries not to cum so soon.
You didn’t let him cum (again) because of his father’s secretary calling him to ask where he even was as the meeting began some minutes ago. Oops.
Even if it ‘ruined’ the mood, he was still so excited, and you’re starting to think you can finally see it begin to also appear on his face.
You didn’t change the rhythm or intensity, so it should’ve been enough for Shouto to get used to it, but he couldn’t. Not while he realized, tensing his thighs helped him feel so much more, and his constant shuffling and accommodation on the chair should’ve alerted you or someone, but who would’ve even thought he was trying to fuck the toy possibly deeper inside of him?
He’s pulling himself closer to the table, bringing a tight fist towards his mouth to feign a cough.
He usually does this so that he is dismissed for a break that he’d take as an open invitation to leave. Not on your watch.
Just as he was going to cough, you finished dragging your thumb to the top part of your cell phone screen and watched as his whole body jolted, and even his knee and elbow hit the table.
The room falls to a complete halt, all conversations interrupted by the young Todoroki… moan? Did the young Todoroki just moan?
He doesn’t even realize what is going on with the way he’s trying so hard to stand up and leave. But his legs are too uncoordinated with how violently the toy is vibrating, mercilessly going crazy against his sensitive prostate that just sends more arousal to his dick. If he looks close enough, he’s pretty sure he’s already beginning to leak through his expensive suit trousers.
His mouth opens in complete shock, but with a familiar hand covering it from behind, he forgets about his surroundings temporarily as he pathetically yet cutely whimpers, wrapping his arms around his stomach.
Not like it hurts, just that he’s pretty close to making a bigger mess in his clothes. He’s not sure how he’ll feel about that, not with the way he just realized he’s still very much in public, very much in a meeting, very much in the same room as his father and soon-to-be subordinates.
That has him closing his eyes quickly, feeling himself becoming cross-eyed at how ridiculing this situation is more for his father than for him, and how you oh-so-accidentally brushed against his nipple to hook your arms under his to get him on his feet.
He’s not even sure what you’re saying at this point, everything being muffled by his heartbeat in his ears and loud buzzing taking over his senses and modesty. Something about him complaining about a stomach ache and how you’ll take him to his office.
The men with gray hairs are talking among themselves about how irresponsible Shouto is with himself, others praising how, even in an ill state, he still attended, Keigo watching the ordeal with an odd look on his face, akin to familiarity of the situation probably, and Enji Todoroki being completely lost but slowly feeling his anger rising by the commotion slowly becoming too loud for his liking and comprehension.
But it’s thanks to this distraction that manages to mute out, miraculously, his mewls of your name as his hips twitch wildly, knees buckling as his orgasm takes over his body in violent, clashing waves. His few hot tears are dripping from his chin as he shamelessly moans softly with every shock of pleasure, still trying his best to stand properly.
He doesn’t even get to finish riding out his high before being dragged out of the meeting room, pretty sure he hears his father’s yells flooding the hallway as you snicker in amusement and rub your thumb on the back of his hand you’re holding. Your other hand occupied itself with turning the toy off, eyes set on the elevator closing in.
“You did great, Shou. I’m so proud of you.”
Your praises always make him keen, but this one makes him moan the loudest today, his shaky hands finding purchase on your hips to press them flush against his. Doesn’t matter the curious wet spot on his crotch, all that matters is that you know how horny he still is.
“P-please? Please, y-y/n. I-I think I ne-need more. St-still hot!”
Now, who are you to deny the man who came in front of his father shamelessly?
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Just Another Conquest - Part 2
Masterlist
Warnings: You were sweet, innocent and completely infatuated with Javier Peña. After an incident at the Christmas party, you become the talk of the secretary's at the embassy and everything starts falling around you.
Pairings: Javier Peña x Reader
Warnings: Angst, Mentions of abortions, Mentions of Miscarriage.
Notes: Still a few touchy subjects in this chapter.
Part 1
You lay there waiting for the procedure to start, heart in your throat as you desperately tried to avoid his gaze. You weren’t sure why Javier wanted to be there for it, why he’d refused to leave your side since he’d found out you were in the hospital. You guessed he felt guilty, after all, he was the one that had gotten you into this mess so you had tolerated him. Had been civil. He had saved you from possible jail time, after all, flashing his badge and convincing the doctors not to report what you’d tried to do to your unborn child.
‘Right you ready?” The doctor asked in Spanish and you nodded, mixed feelings engulfing you at what was about to happen.
You nodded and she placed the probe on your exposed stomach, so you shut your eyes and waited, praying for it to be over. Javier watched you, his heart twisting as he watched the conflict you were suffering saturate your features. You had said you wanted this baby. That you were going to raise it alone and that he had an out. So why did it look like you didn’t?
Then he heard it and all thoughts disappeared like a puff of smoke.
The rhythmic thump of his child’s heartbeat filled the air and his own heart seemed to expand in his chest. He turned to look at the screen, the doctor pointing out the baby he’d helped create and he sobbed. He cried openly and you opened your eyes to see him staring at that small shape, hand over his mouth as he let his emotions flow freely. So you allowed yourself to look.
It was instant.
The feeling of love you had for this tiny being that you were growing inside of you. This tiny life that the doctor informed you were currently around the size of an olive. She then left the imaging on screen as she started to clean the jelly from your stomach and as soon as she was done, Javier placed a soft kiss there.
“Hello, little one.” He whispered and you swooned “I’m your Papi and I look forward to meeting you.” He finished before he looked up at you “If you’ll let me?”
You were at a loss for words. You’d not expected him to be so welcoming of this baby and a pang of guilt struck you. What if you had succeeded? You would have taken this away from him. You’d never stopped to consider that he might actually want this. Want to be a father.
You’d been too scared to consider it.
You were discharged later that day and Javier took you home, helped you get comfortable before putting away the medications and vitamins you’d been given. You weren’t sure when you dozed off but you’d been surprised to find that he was still there when you woke up later that day, carrying a tray of food with him as he set himself down on the bed beside you.
“Made you some soup.” He said softly as he placed the spoon in the bowl and handed it to you “Wasn’t sure whether you’d be up for anything bigger.”
“Why are you doing this Javier?” You asked, your brows furrowed as you gave him a questioning look.
“Doctor said you were going to be weak for a few more days and that you’d probably need a little extra help.” He replied, placing the bowl down when you didn’t take it.
“I know all of that I was there.” You grumbled, “I mean why are you helping me?”
“Because I care about you.”
“If you cared about me we wouldn’t be in this mess.” You spat and he flinched at the statement.
“You’re right I’m sorry.” He fumbled as he pushed the tray closer to you and stood “You don’t want me here... Fucking idiot.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Not you… I’m a fucking idiot. Thinking that you’d accept help from me.” He elaborated “Or that you’d be willing to let me be a part of this baby’s life. I have no right.” He finished as he shook his head and made his way towards the door “I’ll get Connie to come and help you. She's more qualified anyway.’ He threw over his shoulder as stepped through the doorway, only to be stopped when you called his name.
“You have every right to be a part of this baby’s life.” You started, expression softening a little “I just… I just don’t want you to feel like you are obligated to take care of me just because I’m carrying your child.”
“But that’s exactly what I am.” He turned to face you, tears pooling in those chocolate depths “It is my duty to care for the woman who’s to give me the greatest gift I’ve ever received. So I will do that however you’ll let me. Not because I need to.” He paused, locking eyes with yours “But because I want to.”
You nodded at him, giving him a weak smile before picking up the bowl of soup he left beside you and hummed in delight at the savoury flavours.
“Did you make this yourself?” You asked and he nodded shyly “This is really good. How did you learn to cook like this?”
“I nursed my mum through cancer.” He replied honestly and you looked up at him in shock “Kinda taught myself to cook so that I could take care of her and pops. He uh… Well, he didn’t cope well with her illness. Even worse when she passed.”
“Javier I-”
“I’m glad you like it Hermosa.” He interrupted with a smile, changing the subject “I’ll be just out here if you need anything.” He finished and you nodded, watching him leave whilst your heart ached for him.
~
3 months along…
“So the baby is around the size of a plumb now according to the baby book I got.” Exclaimed Javier excitedly and you smiled sweetly at him.
“You read a baby book?” Snorted Steve as he laughed at Javier’s statement, earning a smack on the arm from his wife.
“I think it’s sweet.” Announced Connie as she gave Javi’s arm a friendly squeeze.
“Have you told work yet?” Steve asked you, taking a swig of his beer.
“No.” You replied, shrugging as you spoke “We wanted to wait another month. Just to be sure everything’s… well you know.”
“Makes sense.” Connie replied as she placed a steaming mug of herbal tea in front of you “So there’s been no complications from…” She trailed off and you caught the hurt that flashed in Javier’s eyes.
“No.’ You replied simply, giving him a regretful look “We’re both very lucky.” You finished as you placed a hand on your slight bump.
“Still can’t believe you tried to get rid of it yourself.” Said Steve, not seeing the glares he then received from you and Connie.
Javier felt his stomach twist at the memory of it. Standing abruptly from his seat and making a b-line for the bathroom, Steve watched his partner leave with confusion etched into his features before finally turning his head to see the angry stares of you and his wife.
“You really do need to work on your mental filter Steve.” Connie growled as she turned to look at you “I’m sorry. You okay?”
“I am but Javi…”
“He’ll be okay,” Steve waved off but you shook your head.
“No… You don’t...” You paused a moment, remembering the conversation you and he had shared a few weeks back ‘It still hurts him to know I tried.”
…
2 weeks prior…
‘So I got this baby book.” Said Javier as he placed a large paper bag down on the table “And don’t be mad, but I got a few other things.”
“Javier I’m not even 3 months along.” You chuckled “There’s still a risk that-”
“That what?” Javier asked, his tone taking you by surprise.
“That I could lose it.” You said, voice cracking a little when you saw the expression that spread across his face “I just don’t want to jinx it.”
“You tried to get rid of it and it came through that. I’m sure-”
“Why are you still holding that over me?” You snapped “I made a mistake Javier. You need to move on.”
“Move on?” He growled, tears forming in his eyes “Move on from the fact you tried to kill our baby?”
“I was scared, Javier!” You yelled “I let you in, gave myself to you and you rejected me. Quite publicly I might add.” You paused as you tried to calm your breathing “I’m then forced to take two months off because I became the talk of the embassy and in that time I find out I’m pregnant. How was I supposed to feel about it all Javier?”
“You should have come and talked to me.” He said, tears streaming down his cheeks “I would have-”
“You would have what?” You pried “Welcomed me with open arms? Told me that we could be a happy family and that you’d made a mistake telling me I was nothing more than a stress relief exercise?”
“I never said that.”
“Oh no… we were just two friends comforting each other right.” You scoffed “Except I was in love with you...” You stopped yourself there, unable to believe that you’d just blurted that out. “I’m glad you want to be a part of this baby's life, Javier. It’s not exactly the sort of situation I’d ever expected to have a child but we have to play with the cards we’re dealt. So why don’t we just agree not to discuss the horrific thing I tried to do and just celebrate and enjoy this experience.” You paused as you took his hands in yours “I’m sorry I nearly took them from you. I know it hurts you and it pains me that I inflicted that on you but they’re here.” You placed his hand on your stomach “Growing inside me, safe and sound. We’re going to be okay.”
He'd simply nodded, unable to say anything else on the matter but he knew that he needed to try and move on as you said. It had all turned out for the best.
Right?
…
Steve sat there in shock, reeling from what you’d just told him. His partner hadn’t talked much about what had happened, it had been Connie in the end that had told him, after gaining your permission of course.
“I should go talk to him.” You said as you pushed yourself to your feet, only to be stopped by Steve.
“Let me.” He said as he stood from his seat “My fault he’s upset.” He finished as he made his way to where Javier had gone.
He found his partner staring down at a sleeping Olivia, shoulders shaking as he desperately tried to keep his internal struggle from slipping to the surface. He didn’t notice his partner step up behind him and tensed when the man's hand landed on his shoulder.
“What you doing in here partner?” He asked softly, glancing at his sleeping daughter before returning his attention to Javier.
“What if I’m no good?” He asked, taking Steve off guard.
“What do you mean brother?”
“What if I don’t make a good father?” He asked, letting out a shuddering breath “She tried to terminate the pregnancy because she didn’t think I’d want this.”
“Well, you did publicly humiliate her.”
“Fuck I know that Steve.” Javier growled as he fell back into the soft armchair beside Olivia’s cot “I made a mistake but something really wonderful has come out of that. I just… I dunno how this is going to work.”
“Do you love her?” He asked, perching on the changing table opposite his companion.
“No.” He replied, shaking his head “I mean she's attractive and we had a great time but no… I don’t love her. I’m not looking for anything more with her.”
“Well, I dunno how to advise you then man.” Steve sighed, scraping a hand over his mouth “All I can say is that you’re an idiot. She's an incredible woman and you’d be lucky to be with someone like her.”
“Trust me I know but… I don’t know I guess I just don’t know her well enough.”
“Well then make an effort to. See where that takes you and if you still don’t feel anything for her then fine but you owe it to her and your baby to at least try and see if there’s something there.” His partner finished as he got to his feet and placed a comforting hand over his shoulder “Just think about it Javi.”
…
“I should see what’s taking them so long.” You said, your nervousness getting the better of you “I’ll be right back.” You said over your shoulder to Connie before getting to your feet and making your way to where you knew Steve and Javier were, stopping when you heard their voices.
“Well, you did publicly humiliate her.”
“Fuck I know that Steve.” You let out a stuttered breath as you continued to listen “I made a mistake but something really wonderful has come out of that. I just… I dunno how this is going to work.”
“Do you love her?” Your breath caught in your throat as you awaited his answer.
“No.”
Your heart shattered.
“I mean she's attractive and we had a great time but no… I don’t love her. I’m not looking for anything more with her.”
You couldn’t listen a moment longer. You made your way back to the kitchen where Connie was finishing up with the dishes, grabbing your cardigan and purse.
“You off?” She asked, noting the change in your demeanour as you headed towards the front door.
“Yeah, I uh…” You paused, trying to keep yourself together but failing miserably “I’m tired. Say good night to Steve from me.” You choked before heading out the door, finally allowing yourself to fall apart the moment you were out of sight.
…
“She gone?” Asked Steve as he and Javier made their way back into the lounge.
“Yeah just a moment ago.” Connie stated as she looked at them both “She seemed pretty upset.” Her concern was evident in her features.
Javier’s stomach dropped. He said nothing, just sprinted out the door where he found you curled up on the ground as your tears fell freely. He was at your side in the blink of an eye, crouching down in front of you as he tried, desperately, to get you to look at him.
“Hermosa.” He pleaded and you finally look at him “What's wrong? Is it the baby?”
“Leave me alone Javier.” You growled, your sadness dissolving into anger.
“What is it?” He asked again and you scoffed at him.
“I think it would be best if we go our separate ways, Javier.” You said as you pushed him away and got to your feet “This isn’t going to work. I’m going to go and you can go back to screwing whoever takes your fancy. You aren’t cut out for this.” You finished as you cradled your small bump.
He recoiled at that, his own insecurities finally breaking free.
“I won’t stop you from seeing them. I’ll send you my address when I’m settled and if you want to come and see them then that's fine.”
“You’re leaving?”
“We both know I can’t stay here.” You growled.
“But the baby.” He sobs “I’ll miss everything.”
“You were going to miss that anyway.” You spat as you made your way over to the stairs “You’re a fool if you think you were actually going to see this through. We both know you can’t commit.”
With that, you left, stalking down the stairs and leaving a broken man in your wake. You were right. Of course, you were. He wasn’t cut out to be a father, he was deceiving himself and yet he'd wanted so desperately to try. Steve’s words floated around in his head. He should try to get to know you, to try and make a go of it but how could he when you wanted nothing to do with him. He wasn't against the idea of a relationship with one woman, he'd tried once before with Lorraine but that had crumbled to the ground.
Could things be different with you?
Sinking to the floor he allowed himself to weep. To mourn the loss of his child for he knew that you’d keep them from him, you were right to. The floor is where Connie found him a short time later and it was where she held him as he cried. When his tears dried up she pulled him inside, comforted him as he slowly turned into a shell of the man he once was and Steve knew this was his fault. He had to fix it. He just wasn’t sure how.
~
2 weeks later…
Steve had worked hard to try and bring the two of you together. You’d not mentioned leaving again but you’d also not spoken to his partner since that night. He had pleaded with you to try, told you how broken Javier had been since then but you struggled to believe the agent. You’d heard what Javier had said, he didn’t want to be with you and that he wasn’t sure how this was going to work. You knew what that meant. So you knew you had to take matters into your own hands.
You had to do right by your unborn child.
Steve continued to plead Javier’s case, however, telling you that the man was terrified to approach you for fear you would slam the door in his face you gave the blonde an opening. If Javier could come to you and make you believe that he was serious you would stay. If he couldn’t you would leave. Little did you know that the two DEA agents would be shipped off to Medellin for two weeks before he even got the chance.
Javier knocked on your door, flowers in hand and he nervously shifted from one foot to the other but when no answer came his brows furrowed in confusion and he knocked again. He'd had time in Medellin to think about things. To think about how he did want to try and make a go of things. Just because he wasn't in love with you now... Didn't mean that wouldn't come with time. He'd started to picture the family he could have with you and his heart had swelled at the idea. Knocking a third and final time he let out a frustrated sigh.
Still nothing.
Resigned to the fact you weren’t home, he sprinted upstairs and knocked on his partner's door, knowing his wife would be home with, hopefully, a little update on how you were. He’d read in the baby book that morning that now, at 14 weeks, the baby was around the size of a nectarine and that had excited him to no end. He had wondered if your bump had gotten any bigger and how you’d been coping with the morning sickness, something that had been a struggle when he’d last spoken to you.
“Javi.” Said Connie as she opened the door, Olivia in her arms “What are you doing here?” She asked as she bounced her fussy baby in her arms.
“Is she here?” He asked, saying your name when Connie gave him a bemused expression.
“You don’t know?” She questioned, her face crumpling at the realisation that he couldn't have.
“Know what?” He asked, his pulse racing as he watched Connie’s expression change to one he struggled to read “Connie where is she?”
“She left.”
Part 3
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Professor Layton Iceberg Explanation
As I said in the tags of the original, the iceberg I made was a meme consisting of both real theories and satire/parodies/fandom memes. If anyone is interested, I can work on an unironic version that only has real theories.
Buckle in because this post is LONG and heavily saturated with lore and information.
Actual theories
Parallel universe 1960s where the world wars didn’t happen. There’s an unused file in Curious Village that shows the year as 1960 and the time machine from UF is set to 1973, ten years into the future. The series canonically takes place in an undefined time period (hence the technological inaccuracies and fantasy elements), but it’s based off the 60s. There’s more evidence but we don’t have time to go over every little thing. I linked my “no wars” theory below but TL;DR the outdated airplanes and underdeveloped medicine in the Layton series imply that the world wars may never have happened. https://cayenne-twilight.tumblr.com/post/632205992162099200/outofcontextdiscord-timegearremix-zonosils-war
The real meaning behind the statue in Future London. In UF, the purpose of the statue is to spark Layton and Luke’s conversation about their friendship. Luke is stressing out about moving overseas and sees himself and the professor in the story behind the statue, but in the bigger picture, Clive must have been the one to commission it. Some theorize that the little boy is Clive and the man is either his father or the professor. One idea I’ve seen is that Clive wishes he could be Luke for real, while another is that he wishes he died ten years ago, and another is that he’s literally terminally ill explaining why he doesn’t care about consequence. Personally, I think “the boy succumbed to his illness” refers to his mental illness seeing as he wanted the professor to save him from his madness as he saved him all those years ago.
True location of Monte D’Or. there are no deserts on the British isles to my knowledge, so it makes the most sense for Monte D’Or to be in Southwest USA where English is the default language, they have a desert, and there exists a city famous for flashy hotels, casinos, and entertainment. What makes it odd is that nobody ever mentions overseas travel, and all the major characters are from England.
Loosha’s origins are not explicitly explained if I remember correctly, but the implication was that her prehistoric (supposedly) species was sealed away along with the garden, allowing them to survive all the way to the time of LS until Loosha was the only one left. The garden provided a good habitat and protection from predators, and it’s logical that they’d slowly die out anyways, but there’s no explanation of any specific factors that led to Loosha being the last.
Beasley is not a bee I wrote a post about this one as well, but TL;DR Beasly lacks several defining bee traits whilst having several human ones. He is not human, yet, by definition, not a bee. It’s possible that he is the result of Dimitri’s testing, but whatever his untold story is, he remains an enigma of nature. https://cayenne-twilight.tumblr.com/post/632381715250282496/theory-beasly-isnt-a-bee
Subject 2’s identity is currently unknown. There is a subject one (parrot) and subject 3 (rabbit) so there has to be a second. For a long time, people suspected Beasly to be him seeing as he’s a bit of an amalgamation and definitely not a regular bee (see above). After the release of LMJ, though, people began to suspect Sherl, the intelligent hound who could speak to certain people but not others. That being said, it’s possible for one to be subject 4. Sherl’s memory of a bright flash matches up with subject 3’s memory of being electrocuted. They never explain why the animals were being experimented on, but it was probably Dimitri making sure the conditions of his machine were safe for humans before reliving the incident from ten years ago.
Lady Violet died from the plague from DB. There’s no evidence for this or anything, it’s just an idea. People say she died from the flu but I don’t remember them saying that in the game, at least the US version. Extending off my “no war” theory: it’s theorized that the Spanish Flu was spread by the travlelling soldiers, so if that’s true, it’s possible for the epidemic to have been averted for some decades. Maybe the Spanish Flu reached England later than in real life. The hole in this is that DB’s plague must’ve been close in time to 1918 while Violet’s death was much later, so it would’ve had to stick around.
Bill Hawks is working with Targent and Arthur Cantabella. There was a force in the shadows buying the time machine technology from Bill. Someone with a ton of money who helped him cover up a freak accident and get away with it completely, a feat that involved shady means like violence by hired thugs. Some theorize that it was Targent, seeking power over time in exchange for a little mafia magic. The Labarynthia project was sponsored by the UK government, so as the PM, Bill must’ve known about it. He probably supported dubiously ethical, high stakes (witch pun) psychological experiments like Cantabella’s and helped him stay in the shadows.
All the NPCs in St. Mystere and Folsense are dead. I make fun of this type of theory later, but they’re admittedly captivating. I’m pretty sure the canon in CV is that the villagers are Bruno and Augustus’s OCs that they made robots of and built a town around, but it’s more interesting to think that the village was there before, and the townspeople died of a plague and were replaced like Lady Violet. In Folsense, there really was a plague and they never explain the NPCs there. They’re either real people who appear way younger than they are due to hallucinations (even the ones who already look old ?), or they don’t exist at all, which is pretty spooky. This part of the story is a gaping plot hole. In a similar vein to CV, the edgy yet plausible theory is that they used to live in Folsense but died of the plague and now live on as hallucinations.
Hershel seeing everything as a puzzle is a coping mechanism for all his trauma. This was a joke but I thought about it for more than five seconds and it makes way too much sense.
Plot holes and unexplained questions that we like to overthink because it’s fun
The downfall of the Azran was vaguely explained in canon by people being so greedy that it lead to the civilization collapsing. It’s not a stretch to imagine that happening, but it would’ve been more interesting with a little more detail.
Layton and Luke are programmed to routinely forget how to walk. I didn’t know whether to list this in the joke section or not, but it’s odd that the characters actively participate in the walking tutorial (as opposed to showing a little memo to the player) as if they didn’t know how to before, especially when they go through this several times a year.
The truth behind Pavel. He’s simply a joke character who teleports, is a polyglot (sort of, at least he wants us to think he is) and is mega confused all the time. He’s a fun character to make crack theories about because of his cryptic nature that even he doesn’t seem to understand.
Miracle Mask deleted scenes. The first trailer for MM featured animations that were not in the final game. One was the Randall falling scene, except in a slightly different style than the one we know. Others were completely foreign, like Layton and Luke pacing across a theatre stage as if Layton’s about to expose someone with a dramatic point. Cut content and “could’ve beens” are always curious to think about.
Evan Barde: secret mastermind. Arianna and Tony’s dad is a mysterious character who died under mysterious circumstances. I think the canon is that his death was a genuine accident, but concept art of him making a creepy evil face suggests that maybe he originally had a larger role in the first drafts of LS than the finished game.
The secret to how Paul and Des pull off their disguises is unclear and will remain unclear. There is no plausible explanation for their shape shifting. Unless Paul is just a little dude wearing a human suit like that one Wizard of Oz species and Des is the best quick-changer ever and hides his naturally feminine legs under his cloak.
Alfendi’s mom. When LBMR came out people scrambled to piece together who Hershel had a kid with, but there’s no way alfendi is his biological son. This happened with Kat as well and her biological parents turned out to be brand new characters, so I’m sure Al will get an adoption backstory if his arc continues, be his parents old major characters or nameless, faceless NPCs.
Granny Riddleton and Stachenscarfen are omnipotent deities. Idk which section this fits best under, but these two characters have some serious power. At first introduction, they’re implied to be robots, but they appear everywhere in later games. They follow the Professor wherever he goes and assist him on his adventures, GR collecting puzzles and housing them by some odd magic, and Stachen teaches you how to walk. They both introduce and supervise the gameplay. By extension, I guess this idea could apply to Albus as well in the prequels. GR and Stachen even had the power to appear in LMJ, something no major character could do. I consider them akin to the velvet room attendants from the Persona games.
Clive’s kill count is a vague subject in the game for the sake of keeping it PG. I don’t know if anyone’s ever mathematically estimated the damage he caused, and I sure don’t want to try, but the game appears to push the idea that he didn’t kill anyone at all, saying they stopped him in the nick of time and things like that, even though we watch him raze the city. If they ever want to bring him back post-time skip, I can see them twisting it so that the mobile fortress cutscene wasn’t a linear sequence of events, but instead a compilation of scenes over the course of hours so that London neighborhoods around him could be evacuated and have it make sense. Knowing Level-5, it’s more likely that they wouldn’t think this deep and do something more lazy, though.
Memes and references
Post-time skip Flora is real references the famous L is real theory from Super Mario 64. Like Luigi in SM64, Flora was also a highly anticipated character who didn’t appear in a new game, in this case LMJ or LMDA. In the end, Luigi did become real in the DS port so hopefully Flora is real will be realized as well.
Hershel can’t read is a veteran fandom meme referring to how in the first few games, especially Curious Village, Layton asks Luke to read every document out loud for him. Perhaps this was an exercise to improve Luke’s reading skills and independent thinking, or perhaps he was just too lazy or preoccupied to do it himself, but this grew into the joke that our genius Professor was actually illiterate this whole time.
Layton’s smash invitation is hidden in PLvsAA. It’s no secret that the fandom would kill a man to get the Professor into the smash brothers franchise. In PLvsAA one of the puzzle artworks features a goat eating a familiar white envelope with a red stamp, sparking the joke that either Layton or Wright got the invitation their respective fans desired, but it got lost along the way.
The science board is the mysteriously vague organization Don Paolo got kicked out of for the crime of being evil. It’s the epitome of liberal arts majors and art school graduates trying to bs their way around not knowing any science and failing miserably. “He was very good at all the sciences, but then the CEO of science told him to stop because he was using the power of science for evil science”. They do this again when “Dr. Stahngun” describes his time machine what with the soolha coils and whatnot.
Hoogland is death cult initiation is a parody of “Mario 64 is Freemason initiation” which is ridiculous, just like the creepy human sacrifice subplot of AL.
You can see the reflection of someone watching you in Aurora’s eye references the famous, creepy Talking Angela theory. In retrospect it would’ve been funnier if I said Angela instead of Aurora.
Every copy of Professor Layton is personalized references the famous “every copy of Super Mario 64 is personalized”
Clive’s fat ass in HD is a meme that originated from the announcement of UFHD, saying that half of the excited fans wanted to cry again while the other half were simply attracted to Clive. If we want to enter real bottom-section-of-the-iceberg-chart territory then let’s say Clive’s character has some sort of psychological siren properties that draw people to him like a magnet and/or Harry Styles.
Things I pulled out of my ass for shits and giggles
Infinite hint coin hack: I’m sure a tech savvy cheater could hack the game for infinite hint coins, but there’s no easy or interesting way. I don’t know why someone would do that though, considering a lot of the hints suck and there are puzzle guides on the internet.
Cringy, unused Randall villain monologue. This joke is derived from the actual scrapped MM content as well as deleted content being a popular element of iceberg charts, but it’s sadly not real. Would’ve been hilarious, though.
Last Specter Puzzle 031: Light Height tracks and records children’s intelligence level. It doesn’t, but it’s always fun to make fun of arguably THE most ridiculously difficult puzzle in the franchise. (Seriously, do they expect 7+ year olds to know trigonometry???)
Hershel struggles with tea addiction. Hershel from the games drinks tea in moderation, but the manga begs to differ. He has a tea set in the Laytonmobile, and an attempt at teatime while driving causes him to crash.
Folsense is a metaphor for Alzheimer’s. This is inspired by those edgy kids’ show theories where everyone’s in hell or something, but nobody has ever said this.
London Life is reality and the plot of the games is all in Luke’s head. That’s one way to fill every plot hole. How funny would it be if Luke made up crazy characters and stories based off his fellow townspeople Sharkboy and Lavagirl style. “This dude who lives in a castle and asks people to give him all their money for nothing in return is a vampire from 50 years ago involved in a tragic love story”.
Secret ending encoded into Tago’s Head Gymnastics. It’d be crazy if there was, and Dimitri would hound Tago for the secret to time travel. If you didn’t know, the Layton games started as an adaption of Akira Tago’s puzzle series, except they decided to add a story to make it more interesting and marketable.
Daily puzzles datamine your DS. I’m bad with technology but is it even possible to datamine a DS??? Idk, but I think my DS lite from 2008 is safe.
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You were supposed to just be arm candy for the night. Quinn had strong-armed Bailey into bringing a date for the gala she was hosting. He'd staunchly refused, until she reminded him of last year's party. Maybe it was something in the air, but everyone wanted to either dance with Bailey, or sneak off with him. More importantly, everyone was constantly watching him. It was unnerving, given his history. That's where you came in.
While considering his options, he was forced to face the facts. Eden and his spouse were his only friends. Fuck Quinn, she didn't count. Couldn't trust her as far as he could throw her. Which wasn't far. Her fat tits weighed her down. He didn't trust anybody else to be that close to him the whole night, but Eden would never play along, and he'd kill Bailey before he could finish asking for his spouse to go, which was fair. Bailey had been close to both of them growing up and may or may not have nursed a crush. On both of them. At the same time. Regardless, everyone that attended these parties was some kind of scum. They were, however, very good for networking and making contacts. It's how he found Remy in the first place, after all.
Thus Bailey was left with slim pickings. He could hire one of Briar's skanks, but he couldn't trust they weren't a plant. One that would pass information back to his competition. So that was put. He could rent one of Remy's goons for the evening, but they were ill mannered and ill tempered. They'd no doubt cause a scene. He could bring one of his orphans, but again, they'd cause a scene. Not only that, it'd make him look like a massive pervert. No, bringing an orphan is something the previous caretaker would have done. He sees enough of that monster in himself daily; he didn't need any more. His last option, was to borrow Eden's kid. You were the most beautiful, well behaved little shit he'd ever encountered. Smart and resourceful, you didn't have a lot of love for anyone in town.
Getting his friends o agree was the hardest part. Eden hated the idea of his child going into that town, much less being surrounded by the people who made it awful. His spouse, well, they were skeptical he'd keep you safe. He had a lot of enemies and all of them knew it. What if someone went after their baby because you were with him? New survival equipment and cookware helped convince them. Mostly since it was basically him saying Eden could kill him with a shiny, new hatchet. Or his spouse could beat him to death with their new cast iron skillet.
You were excited to go to a party. Your uncle Bailey brought you to the store and let you pick out all kinds of clothes, just not a gown for the gala. He didn't care about your shape or size. You were wearing a long, open back dress with a slit up to your hips. It was made of black satin and had lace delicately sewn as the collar and cold shoulder sleves. It hugged your assets, the skirt flowing with each move you made. He also got you shiny silver and daimond jewelry, and black, heeled shoes with red bottoms. He even took you to get a mani-pedi. You felt so fancy!
When it was time to attend, you did your hair and make up. It was simple, and a little understated. You wanted to focal point to be on the stuff your uncle got you. He seemed happy enough that you were we wearing the outfit just as he told you to. You were thrilled to please him, after all, he was taking you out of the woods and letting you see the town! You got to meet new people! Besides, it was fun letting him dress you up. You honestly felt a little bad, like you were taking advantage of him. You weren't a child anymore, and he didn't need to spoil you like one.
On the drive to the hotel, you nervously picked at the lace on your dress. Bailey had to take a hand off the wheel and grip both of your hands in his to make you stop. It surprised you at first. Had he ever touched you before? It was usually the other way around, when you'd hug him goodbye. His hands were larger than your's. Calloused and scared, not as bad as your father's. His nails were short and well taken care of, like the rest of him. He chastised you. Your dress was expensive. You apologized profusely.
When you got to the event, all eyes were on you. Your arms wrapped around Bailey's as you let him lead you around. You didn't recognize any of the people other than Quinn. You were happy to talk with her when Bailey stopped to chat. She kept giving Bailey this funny look, like she was trying not to laugh, and wiggling her eye brows at him. If it meant anything, Bailey didn't comment on it, or explain it to you. With Quinn, was a handsome man dressed in horse riding clothes. He looked really out of place. Most people were wearing suits or gowns. Bailey didn't let you speak to him, instead sending you to savage the buffet. He didn't need to tell you twice.
While filling your plate with a variety of hordervs, you felt someone staring at you. An instinct honed while living in the woods. Looking around, you saw a darkly dressed boy watching you. He was really small, you wouldn't have guessed he was your age. His hair was kind of greasy, brushed straight down his face; covering most of it. It made his piercing green eyes stand out all the more. His face turned red and he shuffled uncomfortably when your eyes met. You offered a friendly wave and a warm smile.
Then your attention was back on the food. So many fancy bites to try. You didn't know they made quiches that small! A soft tugging on your sleeve had you turning to see the boy again, now standing in front of you.
"M- My name is Kylar." He said, not making eye contact. He was small, and his body language screamed submissiveness. It made you feel a little more at ease. You could probably kill him with your bare hands if he tried anything. You introduced yourself and offered him a baby quiche off your plate. You weren't a huge fan of meatless quiches anyway.
Kylar held the small baked good in his hands as though you had just given him your heart. You were pretty thankful when Bailey called you back over. As you walked away, you heard someone laughing. A blond boy with hair covering one eye was laughing at Kylar. Did they know eachother? Were they friends? Why was he laughing at his friend? Next to the blond, was another blond boy. The one with long hair, wearing monk's robes, scolded the boy with piercings. They looked like brothers.
When you finally made it back to Bailey, he put his arm around your waist and handed you a glass of champagne. It was bubbly and tickled your throat when you drank it. You drank a few flutes of champagne and felt really funny after the fifth one. Enough so that it was hard to walk without clinging to Bailey. Maybe it was because your face was pressed into his chest, but he smelled really good. You think that's when he decided to leave with you, but it's all hazy after that. Bailey, as it would turn out, was equally hammered. He had enough of his wits about him to rent a room for the both of you, and not drive. But not enough to keep himself from ogling you in the outfit he bought you.
He practically carried you to the room. Which was fine by you. You had a pleasant, warm feeling spreading throughout your body when you pressed against him. After unlocking the door, the pair of you stumbled into the room. It was nice and all, but Bailey had other things on his mind. One other thing, actually. You were so drunk you let him strip you of your jewelry, shoes and stockings. You didn't complain when he removed a but his boxers, not did you mention the damp tent he had going on.
You admired his physic, his scars and his tattoos. It wasn't until he was undressing you, that something in your brain clicked and told you this was wrong. You weakly tried to push Bailey away, your intoxication making hard to move or speak. You whined softly.
"What are you doing?" He ignored you entirely, tearing the gown to rip it from your gorgeous body. You squirmed under him, trying to move away, but he held you firmly in place. His hands felt really good on your hips once they were bare to him, fire igniting every where he touched.
Bailey was achingly hard. Quinn must have put something in his drink. There was no way he wanted to fuck Eden's smoking hot kid as badly as he did. It wasn't like he'd jacked off to the thought of deflowering you before. To sending you home, his seed running down your pretty thighs. Even as you weakly struggled and protested under him, he took off your bra with expert skill. When you tried to cover yourself, he gathered your hands and pinned them above your head.
"Uncle Bailey, stop." You whimpered, your begging only turning him on more. He used he free hand to force your legs apart, so he could settle between them. He thought, for a fleeting moment, about preparing you. No. He wanted to hear you screaming his name. He wanted everyone to hear it. Your undergarments were quickly pulled from your body, leaving your virginal sex exposed to him. Drunk as he was, Bailey was salivating at the sight of you; naked, tears pricking at your eyes, struggling and making the cutest sounds. He was going to fuck you till your pussy molded to the shape of his cock. His underwear went next, tossed carelessly across the room. Again, you tried to wriggle away from him.
"Uncle Bailey, please. I don't want this. I- I've never-" His lips crashed into your's before you could finish speaking. His tongue invaded your mouth, your teeth clacking together in his desperation. More focused on getting your mouth free, you were only distantly aware of Bailey lining the crying head of his cock up with your wet hole. It came to the forefront of your thoughts when he pushed against it. He was huge, bigger than you thought he would be. Not that you thought about it before. He was your uncle, why would you? You gasped as he groaned. Then, in one forceful thrust, he burried himself to the hilt in your tight, no longer virgin pussy.
"Fuck, I felt that. Were you waiting for uncle Bailey to pop your cherry, sweatheat?" He gave you no time to adjust, setting a desperate, needy pace from the get-go. You were crying fully now. The stretch of him hurt! It hurt and he was hurting you more by moving!
"Hu-u-urts!" You sobbed, encouraging Bailey to force your knees to your chest.
"Only for a little bit. It'll feel real good in a minute, treasure." Bailey nipped your lip before moving to take your nipple into his mouth. His lips sucked at the sensitive nub while his talented tongue flicked against the tip. He groaned against your soft skin when your pussy clamped down on his cock. His movement faltered for a beat or two before regaining his rhythm. He continued groping and teasing your chest until your sobbing became choked, unbidden moans. You bit your lip, trying to keep yourself quiet He felt your walls relax around him, making moving easier.
"Didn't I tell you, kitten? Fuck, you love this, don't you? Love having uncle Bailey's fat fucking cock wrecking your little pussy." You hated it. You hated him. He was right and it made the shame that much harder to bear. It didn't hurt anymore. The burning sensation from his cock felt good. It felt so good you wanted more. You felt so full, almost complete. Try as you might, he had you singing for him.
Bailey let go of your hands to force your knees to your chest, folding you in half and giving him easy access to a spot inside you that you'd never reached. Your tongue lolled out of your mouth and your eyes rolled back into your head as he abused the sweet spot inside you. A tight, clenched sort of feeling began winding inside you. You found it hard to breathe suddenly, his name on your lips like a prayer.
"Fuck, yes, that's right. Fuck, you fucking love my cock." Bailey's pace increased, barely pulling out anymore before plunging back in; working the base of his cock and letting his heavy balls slap against your ass. He was ready to cum, but he refused to finish before you. A little denial never hurt him. He enjoyed it every now and then when he was getting himself off. Oh, but your tight little heat, absolutely dripping for him felt so much better than his hand. Far better than he imagined.
"Gonna fuck you all night. Gonna wake up and fuck you again in the morning." You arched your back orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. You cried out, incoherent as he continued to abuse your cunt; using your orgasm and the rythmic clenching of your pussy to get off.
"God! Fucking, yes! Gonna send you home with my cum gushing from your tight little pussy. Keep you coming back for- fuck!" Bailey's rhythm lost it's beat. He frantically fucked himself into you, desperate for his high.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Bailey, honest to god, moaned your name as he came. Pressed to the hilt inside you, he worked himself through his orgasm, prolonging it by grinding himself into you. The feeling of his pubic hair harshly rubbing against your clit pushed your over sensitive body to another high.
He didn't give either of you a chance to rest or recover. Flipping you over, he stared rolling his hips into you again. You whimpered and begged for a break, only for him to slap your ass, leaving an angry, red hand print, and laugh at you.
"Your body belongs to me now, and you're not going anywhere till I'm done with you, kitten." You whimpered as he pushed you down into the mattress, fucking his cum out of you as he prepared to fuck more into you.
Bailey never had much of a sex drive. He didn't know if it was from the abuse he suffered growing up, or if it was natural. Frankly, he didn't want to know. What he did know, was that it left him the a hell of a lot of stamina. You were in for a long night, and when you got home, you'd have to explain to your parents where your bruises came from, why you were walking like that, and why you needed to start visiting Bailey on the weekends.
In a couple of months, you'd have to explain to them why you have a bun in the oven.
(- anon 🚩 bad uncle Bailey takin it from noncon to dubcon gets me hrrrnnngggg.)
Bailey having a crush on both Eden and Pre-PC at the same time makes me think about them double teaming him after a night out drinking.
But also bad uncle Bailey breeding his sweet little niece, keeping her nice and dripping with cum at every chance is such a lovely image. Looking his best friend in the eye and telling him they had a wonderful time, he even took her somewhere to eat out!
Current-PC trying not to blush at the horrible puns Bailey makes about the various ways he's fucked her so Eden doesn't figure out what happened.
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Arvin Russell - The preacher’s sins (1/2)
Requested by an anon, please enjoy it! It was too long, so I divided it in two parts. I’ll post the next one tomorrow!
Plot: there is nothing bigger for you than the love you feel for Arvin Russell. Not a lot of people can awaken what he does in you, with his cheeky smile and chocolate eyes. Now, a stranger threatens to break that bond, manipulating where it hurts the most.
Warnings: It’s the devil all the time, and you know the preacher. So if you’re reading this, it’s because you’re alright with what’s about to happen. Anyway, violence and manipulation.
Arvin’s car was waiting for you when your shift at the café ended. You couldn’t keep the smile off your face when you thought about the upcoming events; a whole weekend just for the two of you, in your house since your parents were away in a business travel. That meant you could sleep in the same bed, have your own space and dream about finally moving in together. As you crossed the street jogging, your bag hanging from your left shoulder, you thought you could get used to it.
He was smoking, looking ahead and lost in his thoughts. Some wild strands of hair had fallen on his face, making him look a bit more childish that usually. Arvin Russell looked as handsome as ever, and for two whole days, would be handsome only for you.
“Arv” you announced your presence when you climbed in the seat beside him, rubbing your arms in an attempt to get ride of the rain’s coldness.
“Hey, pretty girl”
Arvin dropped his denim jacket over you, and while you put it on, he threw his cigarrete through the window’s car, moving his hand around to get ride of the smoke. Once he made sure you wouldn’t choke with it, he closed the car’s windows and looked at you with a half-smile.
“I can’t believe it’s finally happening” you giggled softly, enjoying that moment of excitement and peace.
“Hope ya haven’ changed your mind” Arvin quickly pressed his lips against your cheek, before starting the car. “How was work?”
As you started talking about a cute dog which owner had let you pet, Arvin drove you to your house. He managed to listen to the story, drive safely and sneak a hand so that he could hold yours.
During most of the weeks, it was hard to see him. He was busy with his family and his part times job, taking what he could to earn a little money. Lenora took a lot of his time too, because she often got picked up by the bullies at highschool and Arvin insisted in picking her up every day. Then, he went with her to the grave yard to visit his mother, and he stayed with her until she finished. Sometimes, he would sneak for a few minutes and come visit you in the café, ordering the cheapest thing in the menu and watching you for afar.
Neither of you had a lot of free time. Your family, humble and hard-working, was also very conservative, so even if they accepted your relationship with Arvin, they didn’t like when he stayed at night. His family didn’t have a lot of free space neither, and if they had they didn’t see with good eyes sleeping together before marriage.
That week hadn’t been different. You had been working every afternoon until the sun came down, and then drove back home. The only difference was that you had been stopping briefly at the church, to talk with the new preacher. You knew Arvin didn’t like him – which was why the mood darkened on the way to your house.
“He ain’t good, Y/N” he grumbled, briefly looking at you.
“You don’t know him, it’s just – he’s new here, he needs a chance to prove himself” you defended. “I know what he did to your grandma was wrong, but we can’t judge him by one mistake!”
“It wasn’ just one mistake. He talks and talks ‘bout how everyone is a sinner but ‘im” Arvin protested.
“Arvin, please” you shifted closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. “It’ll be just a few minutes. He told me he needed my help with something, you don’t even have to see him.”
The preacher, indeed, had told you the previous day that he wanted to meet you in the church on Friday. You hadn’t told him your plans with Arvin, even if he was kind of interrupting your peaceful weekend with your boyfriend; probably, because you knew he wouldn’t approve you spending the night with him.
Deep inside, you knew that Arvin was probably right; he always was at the end, no matter what he was talking about. He was the one who said that the boy who Lenora’s was after wasn’t a good man, and now he had fun chasing her with a bag and awful words. There was something about the preacher that you didn’t like either, but you still didn’t know what. For now, you wanted to be on his good side.
“So? Can we stop?”
“I’d feel better if not” Arvin scoffed. “But I guess that’s a yes”
Arvin stopped on the graveyard, an empty place where the sun was setting already. It was dark and silent, and even you, who wanted to stop, were starting to reconsider the decision. You looked out the window, seeing that the church’s door was open and a dim light could be seen from the inside. Arvin exited the car without another word, and you knew he was pissed. He wasn’t too keen on sharing his feelings, even more when they weren’t of love or happiness.
You had been dating for seven months officially, and it had been ten since he asked you for a date after your shift at the café. There was no way you could make him talk about it and comfort him before the sun disappeared completely, so you decided to ignore him and walk towards the church. Still, before entering you looked back, half expecting him to be ready to leave and pick you later. But he had lighted up another smoke and was leaning against the car, looking to his feet.
Much less happier than before, you entered the church. You wanted nothing more than Arvin to be happy, and if you were up to wish anything, for him to have a better relationship with the rest of Knockemstiff; starting with the preacher.
He was sitting in the first row, reading from a small book. The faint lights you had seen came from the candles, which made the place much more scarier than usually. You didn’t think anything about it, not even when you made yourself heard by calling him and he told you to close the door. It was a cold, October day, so you guessed there was nothing wrong with it. After looking at Arvin once more, and receiving no smiles, you closed the door behind you.
“What did you want me for, preacher?”
“Come sit with me, Y/N” he patted the bench beside him, and you approached him. “You ever read the bible?”
“Um, a little. Lenora reads to me sometimes, a-and from what I hear on Sundays” you explained, not really wanting to say it out loud.
The truth was that you had never learned how to read. You had had to drop out of highschool at a young age because your mother had fallen ill, and your father couldn’t manage the family business on his own. With no money to buy books or material, your father had you help in on the shop. You were good with numbers, from years of experience, and you were starting to know what some words were written like thanks to Lenora and Arvin. But not a lot of people in Knockemstiff knew that you didn’t write the orders down in the café because you didn’t know how.
The preacher hummed, finally raising his eyes from the small book on his lap. He shifted closer to you, until you were sure you could hear his heartbeat. He showed you what he had been so focused on, and while you knew some of the letters, it all looked like garbage.
“This is my favourite part” he said, his voice soft but with a sharp edge. “Mom used to read it to me every night, too. You know it?”
“U-um, yeah” you said. Quickly, you tried to search for a word that you could understand. Lenora always read to you a passage of the bible when you went to their house, and maybe you could know what was it about. However, the preacher closed the bible before you had time to find it.
“God is merciful and benevolent, Y/N” he stretched one arm behind your shoulders, and you felt tears run to your eyes when you understood he knew it. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of – Arvin had managed to convince you it wasn’t, but you felt embarrassment crawl through your spine. “He forgives us all, all of our sins. But you know what is what he doesn’t forgive? Lies”
The back of your hair was grabbed with so much force that you emitted a low cry. If the door had been open, maybe Arvin would have heard you. But he angrily pacing around the graveyard, thinking about how he shouldn’t be so hard with you, and you were too afraid and embarrassed to scream any louder.
You were met with the preacher’s hard eyes, hateful and unforgivable. The back of your head throbbed from how hard he was gripping it, and finally a lonely tear made its way down your cheek. It seemed to offend him more, because he squeezed harder.
“You think you’re worthy of stepping into this temple?” he hissed, his hot breath making you shudder. “You think I wouldn’t find out that you can’t read? Or that you spend the nights with that boyfriend of yours?”
“Preacher –“
“Shut the fuck up!”
The nice man who you had been talking to the rest of the week disappeared in thin air, and you were thrown to the ground with a force you didn’t know the kind preacher had. A small cry of pain left your lips as your right wrist bent awkwardly against the edge of the bench, and you tried to move away. But the preacher had other ideas, because he hoisted you up until his face was inches away from you again.
You were sure he would just bash your head against the bench and Arvin would only have your cold body for the weekend when his face morphed, and that calm that always surrounded him was back. He sat on the bench again, and put his head against his hands, as if he was in deep thinking. Before you could think about running out of there screaming Arvin’s name, the preacher talked.
“Get naked”
Want to read more? Check out my side blog @imaginesmaimasterlists, where I keep all the masterlists! Feedback is always appreciated
Tom Holland and Peter Parker Taglist
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error 404: answer not found
Akita and Zane talk after the battle in 'Awakenings'. The conversation... doesn't go as either of them expect.
Prompt: memories, from @ninjago-bingo‘s warm board:D
Trigger warnings: implied self harm (one or two characters dig their fingernails into their hands), discussion and introspection about most of the crimes the 'Emperor' committed, a lot of talk and introspection about murder.
Word count: 4682 (I've literally been writing this for like a month lol, kinda disappointed it ended up fairly short:/)
"We have to talk."
The girl with red markings on her face - Akita, he heard Lloyd call her - unsheathes her short dagger, eyes narrowed to slits.
He glances around the throne room, hands pressed to his head. The memories were still trickling through; strange islands and a forest of snow, a dungeon and... a noodle factory?
"Alright," he says quietly. She bears the same red marks of the bear he can remember Vex convincing him was a criminal, many winters ago. That could only mean-
It wasn't you, he reminds himself. It was the scroll, and the actions of a power hungry traitor.
You gave the order, his now infallible memory supplies, and, honestly, he has no rebuttal for that.
"Alright," he echoes meekly, trying to muster some emotion into his voice. "I know-"
"No," she cuts him off roughly, her eyes scanning the room. It is just the two of them now - the samurai had fled once they had recovered from the strange trance he had put them in. Vex had been locked in the dungeon by Lloyd, who was helping any of the samurai who could not quite remember their old lives.
He had ruled for sixty years. Some of their families might dead, some by their own hands.
They know this. He knows this.
Irrationally, he wishes there was some way to fix this. A spell, or a way to turn back the clock; some way to yell at a younger Zane to just scout the cave-
There is no way backward; only forward, out of this winter - and, possibly, into another one.
He stares at the girl in front of him, taking in her tattered clothing, the ease with which she holds her weapon. She's not afraid to fight.
"I don't owe you an explanation, Emperor," Akita says definitely, forcing out the words. "But you will give me one, or you shall never see the light of day again. My brother-"
His heart lurches, eyes widening. Brother.
"Knows that the dungeon has many empty cells," she finishes sharply, barely contained anger flashing in her eyes.
He keeps the facts brief, concise. Once this is all over, he can dwell on them - agonize over what he should have done; use it to be better next time. Atone for his mistakes, even if he can never truly make up for them.
"A snake capable of sorcery used a magic scepter to blast me and a vehicle to this realm. I was sent here sixty years into the past, which is why it took my friends so long to find me. I was also holding a similar magic scepter - one which amplifies the holder's power, but if held for too long, it corrupts one's mind."
"I know what happens next."
How-
"I watched your message to your friends," she replies curtly, by way of explanation. "I did not know that you and the Emperor were one and the same. Continue."
"Vex interrupted a process I was using to try and fix a- vehicle, which caused me to lose my memories. He told me that I was ill. He said that he was a great friend of mine, and that this realm belonged to me. He convinced me that Formlings were warmongers, and that the rightful king had overthrown me. Just before he almost killed Lloyd, he said something that caused my memories to return."
She frowns. "I do not understand. How does one lose their memories so easily?"
Akita stares at his metal skin, her eyes widening as if noticing it for the first time.
"I am not quite like you-"
"I know," she interjects, eyes brimming with anger. "I am not a murderer."
"I was... created," he replies, quietly. "Out of extra materials. I can act like others, but I do not always understand emotions in the same way."
Akita frowns again, raising her dagger. Her voice grows a dangerous edge; sharp and cold. "You never realized that your actions were wrong?"
They're entering dangerous territory. Some part of him wants to derail the conversation; stick to the facts and leave his emotions out of this.
But he owes her an explanation - he owes everyone an explanation. He owes them so much more, if only he could give it to them; erase the past and leave their quiet realm in peace.
"Before I came here, I would never have done such things - if I had my memories, I would never have done such things. Vex convinced me that they were the only way I could defend my throne. I did not know that they were wrong. The moment I realized what I had done, I tried to help your side. The right side," he finishes, ignoring the temptation to stare down at the floor instead of into her blazing eyes.
An indecipherable expression crosses her face. "You never talked to another? One of your... army, perhaps?"
"Vex gave all the orders. He just asked me for approval. I never left this room."
"And you approved them," she muttered, but it seemed to serve more as a reminder to herself than it did to him.
"What was your life like, before you entered our world?" Akita asks suddenly, suspicion still coating her voice.
He blinks, the question unexpected.
"My friends and I can control and create different elements," he began, hesitantly. Carefully. "We were taught to fight. We protect our city from those-"
"You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
"Those who cannot protect themselves," Zane finishes, guilt making his vision hazy.
He quickly blinks away the tears, all too aware of her persistent gaze.
"Two more questions," she says quickly, glancing behind her. "This room makes me uncomfortable. And so do you."
The accusation is clear, but her eyes are not quite as cold as they had been earlier.
"What do you feel now?" Akita asks roughly, taking a step back. "You mentioned earlier that you do not feel emotions the same way that we do. Explain."
I could lie, he thinks, fleetingly. What if my feelings convince her that I am the Emperor even more than I am Zane?
A voice at the back of his mind points out that he is - was - the Emperor.
He knows this.
He knows that he will have to acknowledge it once they are back home.
He knows that he cannot dwell on it now, or the winter will go on - inside his mind instead of outside it.
"I feel... guilt," he begins. "For the terrible crimes I have committed. Horror, at my own actions. Anger, towards that traitor. Relief - that I am no longer under his influence."
An eyebrow touches her forehead, ever so slightly.
"How guilty?" It is almost a challenge, her voice rising in pitch threateningly.
"I will spend the rest of my life working to atone for my mistakes," Zane answers sincerely, resisting the irrational urge to squeeze his eyes shut. "However, I know that nothing I can do will ever undo them. But I can help others from people who- who... seek to manipulate them," he finishes quietly, a remorseful sigh punctuating the confession.
Akita says nothing; lips pressed in a hard line. Her blank, steadfast gaze meets his.
The dagger clatters to the ground.
He draws in a breath sharply.
Picking it up, she squares her shoulders defiantly. "My people will know that... that there were two prisoners within these walls," she sighs, the weariness in her voice all too evident.
Yet he does not miss her glare; a barely contained anger that lurks just beneath the surface.
Akita straightens her spine, frowning menacingly as her hand tightens on the dagger.
He resists the irrational urge to take a step back.
"My brother and I will never forgive you," she snarls.
You do not have to, he would like to say. But he suspects that she already knows this.
"Come near either of us again, and I will make you long for death."
She shifts to her wolf form, baring her teeth - but when she stalks closer, he does not back away.
Suddenly, he is all-too-aware of the fact that the throne room is currently empty - bar the two of them.
He does not move.
It is not as if she could harm him - titanium is not easily damaged (yet, some part of him wonders if that is a blessing or curse), but they have faced enough villains for him to know how it works.
The villains die at the end; rightfully so.
Why should this be any different?
"You will pay for your crimes," Akita growls, shifting between her forms as if it is second nature. It probably is. "Emperor."
Her dagger clatters to the ground once again.
He does not move.
Why should this be any different?
---
"What's taking her so long?"
"Who?" The Samurai asks, the confusion on his face only amplifying.
"No- nothing," he mumbles, wincing. The adrenaline is wearing off - and with it, the fleeting distraction from the pain coursing through his chest.
Broken ribs? Probably. But he's got bigger problems to worry about - his minor injuries don't really matter when there's a warrior (because after all that she's been through, he thinks that she deserves the title - even if it's one she would never have wanted) seeking vengeance, someone who could tear apart this castle, brick by brick if she wanted to, alone with his brother.
His brother - who'd taken hers; encased her village in a tomb of ice, leaving behind no one but a teenager consumed with blinding anger - rightfully so, he admits, a bit wearily.
What happened to you, Zane?
Are you even... there? The person who used to stay awake with me when all I saw was the building crumbling before my eyes, night after night? The one who swore to protect those who couldn't protect themselves?
Are you still there?
"Can I, er, go inside?" he asks no one, trying not to breathe too hard. The Ice Samurai he'd been trying to help had vanished, most probably to try and get answers from someone else.
He owes it to these people to help them - if he'd just been faster, stronger, better, Aspheera could never have-
Not now, Lloyd!
He should probably open the doors - try and diffuse whatever fight they'd gotten into. Akita reminds him of Kai; both of them fiercely protective of those whom they care about, yet sometimes clouded by rage so thick they can barely see out of it.
But he's hesitating - there's always the possibility that her anger; prison of its own, might extend to him.
Not that he even has the right to condemn her for it, though.
Unwillingly, a fleeting thought presses itself to the forefront of his mind; beautiful white hair, a soft voice coated in honey-
Broken ribs, he reminds himself stubbornly, grimacing at the flare of pain as he draws in a breath sharply. She's gone, she's gone, and it's-
He bites his lip until the tang of iron fills his mouth, eyes fixed determinedly on the floor.
Not now, Lloyd!
Slowly, carefully, he pushes the door open. It creaks softly - but he doesn't think anyone hears it.
Oh, no.
---
"Akita?" a voice questions, hesitantly. He's half-leaning against the door, blonde hair almost completely hiding wary eyes all but squeezed shut in pain.
She stiffens, ignoring the part of her that learns to hunt, murder, the- the monster-
Blinking, quickly, she allows her mind to embrace the sharp, cold air on her fur, and her harsh, ragged breathing - until she can almost feel the shift in her heart, trading instinct for a different type of clarity, white fur for skin and hair.
Grabbing her dagger, she halfheartedly swipes it at the boy who makes her cheeks redder than they usually are, the boy who travelled across the ice seeking a murderer-
Well. He is in no condition to help anyone - they both know this.
But he does not have the right to interfere with this conversation - her feelings do not matter when his friend is-
"Leave us," she snarls, fingers digging into the hilt of her dagger. "What makes you think you have the right?"
Her voice grows colder, but she can't quite keep the tremor out of it.
"You did not find your village half-dead, or spend months mourning your brother," Akita snaps, frustration seeping into the words. Why does he always have to make everything so complicated?
"I know," he replies, hesitantly, eyes flitting between the room and the door. "But... this isn't the right thing to do, Akita."
"Do you think it was right for your friend to seize power from our rightful ruler? Do you think he was right when he imprisoned an innocent child for so many years?"
She doesn't bother to keep the venom out of her voice, ignoring the fact that the light brown of her skin has almost faded to white where she grips her weapon.
Taking a step closer, she bites her lip.
If he will make this his fight, so will she.
"The girl I told you about," Lloyd interjects. "H- Harumi." He forces out the name, as if the very mention of it ails him.
She raises her eyebrows. "What are you going to do? Distract me with stories about your girlfriend while he," Akita glares at the Emperor with a sigh, "escapes?"
"No," he replies softly. Brushing the hair out of his eyes, she doesn't miss his poorly concealed wince.
This is the friend he seeks?
There's a fragile silence, one of which she refuses to shatter. Nothing he can say will erase the horrific actions of this- this power-hungry ruler who has abused the gift he has been given; persecuted their lands, and forced innocents into lives ruled by fear and hatred.
"I- er-" Lloyd starts, visibly uncomfortable with saying... whatever it is he is trying to say.
She does not interrupt, but does not take her eyes off the Emperor, either. He has not moved or even contributed to their exchange yet.
Good, she thinks fervently. She does not need to force herself to try and feel sympathy for a man she has hated for so many long winters, one who has taken a piece of her heart and locked it away in a tiny prison cell.
"Did I ever tell you that- that... I watched her die?" he asks, aiming for a casual tone.
The hurt subconsciously laced into it makes something in her heart twist, as if it had been pierced by a shard of glass.
Outwardly, she does nothing more than raise an eyebrow.
For all the days they have spent trekking across the ice together, it suddenly dawns on her how little she actually knows about him.
"No," she replies carefully, dragging out the word. "Why?"
"She-"
Akita can almost see his internal struggle - anger and fear and indecision and something she can't quite place her finger on meshing into another thing entirely.
"She- tried to murder," Lloyd flinches at the word, nails digging into his palms, "my friends. And I was forced to watch, helpless," he whispers, so softly that she has to strain to hear it.
"But when she- she died in a crumbling building, I- was... the one who caused it to fall."
"Your point?" she snaps; voice as sharp as her blade. He is the only thing standing between her and the Emperor; between the growing hatred she had allowed to fester for all this time, because one day she would finally make him pay-
Her friend visibly winces.
Too late does she realize her mistake, a fact that leaves her a bit sick to the stomach.
That's nothing compared to the bout of nausea that accompanies another realization, juts a second later.
How could I let my anger hurt another - one who did not deserve to receive it? Am I truly any better than the one whom I have condemned?
Well. The logical side of her mind points out that it is her choice to forgive, for such unforgivable acts; that the anger that had doused everything in its hue, every day, was to be expected-
"I apologize... for my conduct," she says quickly, forcing herself to meet his eyes. "You have never hurt me. I did not mean to hurt you."
"It's okay- this- this isn't my fight anyway," Lloyd replies quickly, fingers wrapped around the door handle - but she doesn't even think he's aware of the fact. "I just- I just wanted to share something with you, something I wish someone would've shared with me, because-"
He's rambling, words practically coated in a jumble of shaky nerves.
"What is it?" Akita asks softly, losing a little of the stiffness in her tone.
"Murder- it isn't right," he repeats, hands pressed to his forehead. "But... it'll hurt you more than it will anyone else. I can't go a week without seeing her fall in my dreams, over and over again. I should've been glad, I guess... she'd hurt my friends and I so many times. But- but I'm the one with the nightmares, and all this- guilt. And I care- I care you, Akita. I know that I'll never understand how you've been hurt by- by the Emperor... just, think about how it'll affect you."
Akita's eyes widen incredulously, but he's not done.
"Just- don't let someone else make you hurt yourself." His voice is about a pitch higher than normal, but neither of them really register it. "Sometimes, the best kind of revenge is refusing..." Lloyd trails off, his eyes squeezed shut (a second later, he opens them again, blinking profusely), "to let anyone... make you hurt them."
Irrationally, she wants to break something.
That advice offers... an entirely new perspective. One that she had never thought of.
One that is- is unwanted, she insists fervently.
And now his fingers are pressing into his hands again, so tightly that she almost wants to yell - stop it, idiot, you're hurting yourself! - at him. "Because... it might haunt you lot more. And if they- they- really want to hurt you?" Both of them ignore the erratic, painful looking way his breathing starts to hitch just then.
"Don't give them... the satisfaction of it - by- your own hands."
Her mouth drops open.
No words come out.
What?
Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Lloyd slowly - a bit too carefully - push the door shut behind him. It creaks softly, but neither of the two left standing in the room really hear it.
She squeezes her eyes shut, far too many emotions almost crashing through her mind.
"You seek to rescue your friend. I seek revenge."
Blinking the world back into focus, her mind whirls and whirls; the storm unrelenting.
"I seek revenge."
What exactly did that mean to her?
She...
She did not quite know the answer now.
---
Akita does not speak for some time, her thoughtful expression plainly clashing with one of anger.
He does not speak, either, although it is for a different reason.
Lloyd's words have forced him to face the reality he has been avoiding ever since he smashed his scepter on the ground - ever since the decade-long winter had ended.
"And if they really want to hurt you? Don't give them the satisfaction of it - by your own hands."
"If they really want to hurt you."
There is only one whom Lloyd could have been referring to.
"You were built to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Somewhere within his mind, he is aware of the fact that the second his memories returned, the staff lay in pieces on the floor; all of that corrupted ice shattering into nothing.
He is also aware of the fact that sixty years of tyranny will leave behind much more than an altered climate.
If they even get back to Ninjago, what will have become of his city? It took his friends decades to find him - what could have happened during all that time?
Friends. Does he even have a right to call them that?
He is not quite sure - or even sure if all of them will be as forgiving as Lloyd.
The Green Ninja had always strived to find the best in people - to believe that anyone could make up for their mistakes, that they would want to. It had been to his friend's detriment, once - yet Lloyd had never quite given up on the world, in the same way that many of them had. Maybe it was some sort of childish naivety - or maybe it was just in his nature to hope, even after all they had been through, that everyone had some good inside them.
Yet, he had never met anyone who shared his friend's mindset - or at least to that extent.
Kai knows what it is like to have a sibling kidnapped, taken from them for no rhyme or reason - other than the fact that a cruel ruler who seeks power and exploits those around them for it will stop at nothing to get what they want.
Cole knows what it is like to die (well, almost, his logic points out) - to be imprisoned within yourself; a husk of a person, unable to live your life to the fullest.
His mind flashes to the thousands of innocent villagers he had frozen in icy prisons, practically caskets-
Irrationally, his hands begin to shake.
He chooses not to focus on that.
Nya used to hunt down those who hurt others, he recalls - and then squeezes his eyes shut.
Is she not quite similar to Akita in that regard?
The realization leaves him more gutted than he thought was possible. Had he really become the very person his friends worked so hard to stop?
He clenches his fists, the titanium covering his fingers grating together.
At least I am no longer holding the scroll, he thinks, fervently.
Before long, the memory of a clear, quiet night pulls itself to the forefront of his mind.
The echo of a whispered confession; a brief explanation mixed with tears and shaking hands. A voice usually so bright, silenced to the shaky murmur of "I watched her die, Zane, and it was all my fault, it's all my fault-"
It was then when he had learned of- of an alternate timeline, his processor had inputted seamlessly. Another reality, wiped from their minds and the press of time. One that only existed in the memories of two of his best friends.
One that resulted in poorly concealed winces, seemingly arbitrary flinches, Nya throwing out any dresses she owned and Jay practically shaking with fear when he was asked to do certain chores. One that resulted in scars that ran far deeper than those of venom or sword.
His memories had been useless then, too, his mind points out. How could he have let two of his best friends suffer for weeks on end, when he was able to upgrade or encrypt his memory drive at any time? When he was a n- robot, and should be able to recover memories that had been deleted or erased? The others could never be afforded that opportunity - yet, he had let the team down when it mattered most. If he could not be there for others, try to help them protect them from a force unable to ever be completely defeated, would he ever even halfway fulfill his purpose?
He had pondered all of those questions - had ignored the pang in his heart when many pieces of the figurative puzzle clicked into place, for many weeks afterward. He had almost immediately vowed to be better - to ensure that his purpose did not go unfulfilled.
His purpose, he thought bitterly, as he squeezed his eyes shut. What had become of it now?
Another question to ponder, he supposed. And the realization that Jay - one of his brothers, one who was always equipped with a weapon and a joke too - would forever know what it was like to be kidnapped, held hostage, simply because a power-hungry figure cared less for another than anyone ever should.
Akita's brother had been scarcely less than a child - after his imprisonment. How could he have strayed so far from his original goals - how could he have strayed so far from what he had supposedly fervently stood for?
---
Lloyd's words still ring in her ears, his weary tone not quite matching their crazy implications.
She rubs her temples, frustrated. This was definitely not what she had come here for! She had come for vengeance - vengeance for the terrible crimes the Ice Emperor had committed, against her village, her brother, even her-
But what was the point of revenge if she was the one left scarred? a small voice in the back of her mind points out, doing nothing but adding to her indecision.
I cannot do this, she insists fervently, thinking of her brother's worn face - and the years he had spent imprisoned; a lone figure silently mourning a sister he did not know still trekked the ice.
Just as she had been mourning him, she thinks sadly. The pang in her heart may have lessened since she had realized that he was still alive, but it was still horrifying to think that he had lost decades of his life - she had lost decades of hers, too, in a different way, she muses - saddened, alone, imprisoned.
But is this what he would have wanted? For her?
He had always been the calmer, logic-based one. She was always running into fights, the one fueled by emotion and anger.
Well. She spares a moment for the future.
The Emperor would leave their world - possibly, to haunt another. She would remain here - with her brother and her village, the woods and the towering peaks of the mountains.
I only have this one chance, she reminds herself firmly. She fixes her eyes on the strange blue ones of the Emperor, and sees a future ruled by that one decision.
Her gaze flits towards the doorway, and she sees a future there, too.
She sighs, dropping her eyes to the ground.
But Katuru would want me to- to-
Be happy, she realizes, jarringly.
Taking a deep breath, she bites her lip.
"Will taking your life make me happy? Will it make up for the years of pain we have endured at your hands?"
Her voice rings out, hesitant yet determined.
"I wish it were so," she confesses wearily, ignoring the ache in her hands. She's been gripping the hilt of her dagger for so long, the blade's almost pierced her skin. "Alas, it is not."
The Emperor meets her gaze, but not completely - out of guilt? Fear? Anger?
She does not have the time to ponder meaningless questions.
"I despise you with every fiber of my being, you coward," Akita snarls, some of the anger she has become so accustomed to bleeding its way into her words. "But I will not tarnish my hands on someone as worthless as you, when you presently pose no threat to me."
The words spill from her mouth, but she almost wants to stuff them back inside at that very second.
This isn't why I came here! This isn't what I was supposed to do-
Another voice cuts through the one in her head, a weary confession from someone she knew nothing and everything about.
"Don't give them the satisfaction of it - by your own hands.
The next words she utter fill the room - steady, unwavering.
"Leave our world, and never return. Never. You have treated my people as if you are a monster, yet you say that you are sorry. As if you could ever care - after everything you have done to us!"
Akita sheathes her dagger, indecision still weighing heavily on her mind.
"I hope that you are as haunted by your time here as we all are," she spits, walking towards the door. She does not look behind her, but packs as much bitterness as she can into the last word she utters before the door closes behind her.
"Emperor."
---
A/N - I know this wasn't great, but honestly, it was really interesting to write and challenged me to think about certain things quite a bit. If you did read it, thank you so much!:D
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Duress
https://archiveofourown.org/works/30665933
As ever, Jon’s timing was impeccable.
Impeccably awful.
Barely a month into his new “promotion” and already he could feel a toll. If he was completely honest with himself he hadn’t expected quite this level of work despite not being a stranger to long hours. To put it bluntly, the archives were a mess. Gertrude hadn’t left any clues as to how filing was done and it all seemed so haphazard he had to wonder if it wasn’t on purpose. He was up to his elbows in files he’d found in a water stained cardboard box when Tim sauntered up, looking down his nose at the papers in disgust. Jon wished he would help and didn’t know how to ask for it with their relationship as strained as it currently was. Tim had silently allied with Sasha when Elias made the announcement and they were all navigating the current situation gingerly. Jon didn’t blame him. She needed support. The statements and recordings and organization could wait until they were ready.
“Hey there, boss. Was wondering if you wanted to come out with us tonight.”
Oh, of course. It was Friday, wasn’t it.
Jon looked around his office, strewn with papers and post-its and worse off than it was this morning. Guilt welled up in him like blood from a wound. Tim was losing his already limited patience with him.
“Uh, yes, that would be nice. It has been a while.” He leaned back and wiped his dusty hands off on his trousers adding to the light streaks already there.
“Yeah, I’ll say. Too important to hang out with us now, ey Jon? Now that you’re a corporate bigwig?”
“I am not!” Tim held his hands up in supplication.
“Just kidding, yeah?” It didn’t sound like it was just anything; certainly not the jokes Tim used to tell. This just felt cruel, probably because Tim thought it was the truth. Jon could admit he was prickly and difficult and knew he never won over many. If he lost Tim and Sasha over this he didn’t know what he would do. “Usual place.”
That exchange happened hours ago and Jon didn’t feel well. He couldn’t go out like this, pulse pounding, head throbbing, vision swimming. He’d have to cancel. But he’d canceled at the last minute on them so many times before and he could tell their patience was wearing thin. How was he supposed to choose between his new job and his old friends? Why couldn’t he just be normal for once?
Why did Tim choose now to forget this sometimes happened?
Any moment they’d be by to collect him and Jon was so dizzy he wasn’t altogether sure if he could stand. He hadn’t felt like this since Uni when he and Georgie spent many a late night studying for exams. He’d crashed shortly after, struck down with some illness or another, and barely remembered more than a glimpse of her face staring down at him with concern. Surely they would understand?
“Ready, boss?” Casual with his jacket over one shoulder, Tim leaned into the office, scowling when he laid eyes on him, exasperated. “Really, Jon?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Tim scoffed. “S’sorry. I know it’s rude, I’m just. Tired.” That was a part of it anyway.
“You know, Jon, you say you still want to be friends and then never hang out with us.”
“I know, I’m--”
“You’ve cancelled so many times at this point I don’t know if it’s even worth inviting you.” Jon’s heart nearly stopped, a painful lurch that all but choked him.
“...Please.” Bare more than a whisper, Tim raised an eyebrow in question.
“What?”
“P’please keep inviting me.” If Jon wasn’t so sure he’d pass out upon standing he’d be springing to his feet. “I, I, I’m there. Next Friday, bells on, I swear.”
“And tonight?” Cold sweat slipped down his spine. But if he rested this weekend, took it easy next week, maybe asked them for a bit more help-- “Sure, boss.”
The weekend came and went and Jon tried every trick in the small volume of self-care tips he actually paid attention to. He wanted to show them what they meant to him, even Martin, new and bungling as he was. If they were to be a team, he needed to get to know him. And besides, Sash and Tim enjoyed his company. Had been inviting him out the whole while. Unfortunately, Jon was still exhausted from not sleeping well for bad dreams and restlessness, not eating enough because anxiety turned his stomach. But he’d made a promise and he vowed to make good on it.
Monday saw a fresh pile of work stacked neatly in the center of his desk blotter, old assignments shoved off to the side and a note in Elias’ neat scrawl informing him that this was the priority. Jon spent the next hour putting together the things he’d been in the process of collating and jotting down a list of instructions that even Martin could follow before dragging it out to where his assistants were working.
“Hullo, Jon.” Bright and cheery, Martin chirped a greeting and Jon forced a small smile.
“Morning.” Tim and Sasha nodded back, expectant looks on their faces. “I, um. Well, Elias brought in some more documents for me to take a look at.”
“Promotion came with some extra obligations, did it?” Tim laughed, elbowing Sasha good naturedly.
“Yes, I suppose it, it did.” Jon shifted nervously, anticipating the answer even before he’d asked. “I was hoping you would be able to help me with these ones?” He lifted the stack and Tim made a show of whistling.
“Wow, I mean. I would, boss, but I’m in the middle of this other thing you gave me last week.”
“Oh. I was. Well I was rather hoping you’d have wrapped that up by now.” The room began to tunnel and Jon staggered just a step even though he was standing still. He hadn’t been able to use his cane and handle this veritable mountain.
“You and me both.”
“Jon?” Martin’s worry was more embarrassing than anything else and he forced himself to focus despite the trembling in his hands. “I can take some of them.” But the messy heap on the corner of his desk in danger of toppling hardly seemed smaller than it had the week before. It wouldn’t do to add even more to what the other man couldn’t seem to handle but...
“Th’thank you for the offer.” He selected a few slim folders and handed them off and somehow the work in his arms became heavier.
“No problem!” Martin was beaming so he must have done something right and it sparked a bit of warmth in him. “I’ll make an exchange for another, soon as I finish this up.”
Tuesday went much the same, though Jon’s insomnia and sore joints forced him out of bed and he decided to use the gift of time to come in early to get a bigger start on the old mess so he had more time for the new mess and while Martin was slow it helped to have someone else tackling it with him. He suspected that Tim and Sasha were making a statement in their being shiftless and Jon couldn’t find it in himself to address it instead hoping that once he proved himself they could move past it. Using the stairs proved foolish as Jon nearly took a header from vertigo and he thanked the stars he was early and alone so he could sit down and wait for the episode to pass. Lord, he hurt. Joints on fire, white-hot fire pokers of pressure needling his hips. He hung his head when tears of frustration began to fall.
Wednesday found Jon buried alive and struggling. He had to stay late in order to finish out the day and by the time he made it home he could barely stand, falling into bed and waking the next morning still dressed in his wingtips and work clothes. Marginally better for the rest, Jon used the boon to plow through the rest of Elias’ assignment, skipping lunch he knew he wouldn’t eat anyway to finish.
“Oh, Tim!” He called out his door as he passed, relieved that he wasn’t ignored. “When you have a moment could you take these up to Rosie?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Jon pushed away the disappointment when the end of day came, his assistants left, and the box still sat on the corner of his desk.
No bother, Tim probably forgot and Jon searched the stacks for the department’s hand truck with its one sticky wheel and found it loaded up with more of Gertrude’s chaos. He didn’t have much choice than to shove at it unceremoniously until it toppled over, papers fluttering out of their folders and under shelves. He’d just have to deal with it later. What’s one more thing? When he tugged, his shoulder very nearly came loose and his yelp of pain was swallowed up in the dark and the dust. Noone around to hear him anyway.
More tears.
He was a mess.
He went along more carefully, cursing the squeak of the blasted wheel, cursing Tim for his forgetfulness, cursing Elias for letting him even steal the job from Sasha to begin with. Cursing time itself because he wanted to go home and it was already an hour past.
“Rosie, I’m so glad I caught you.” She was just starting to collect her bag. “Can I leave this for Elias to collect when he gets in?”
“Of course, Jon!” She helped him lift it to her desk and disguised his taking a rest with interest in her writing a note of explanation.
“Thank you, you really are a lifesaver.” Jon chuffed a weak and humourless laugh. “I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Of course, dear. Just take that along with you so I don’t have to hear about it from the night staff.” The dolly. Yes. It would have to go back down with him wouldn’t it?
Thursday Jon could barely lift his arms. The debacle from the day before had taken whatever they had left and he was scared that at any moment, his arm would drop from its socket. That happened sometimes. So far, no doctor had figured out why.
“Ready for tomorrow?” Tim jolted him out of staring at his pen cup and the surprise set his heart to racing. Jon didn’t know how many minutes he’d lost.
“Ah, uh.” Absently, he rubbed at his chest, willing the battering tempo to slow before it shook him apart.
“Boss.” It sounded too much like a warning and felt too much like his last chance to prove he had what it took to be their friend.
“I’m not backing out!” Quick to cover up his fumble. “Don’t forget to collect me.”
“Never!” Jon couldn’t help but hope he did.
It was a short walk to their usual pub and Jon pushed himself to keep up, breaking out in cold sweat as the nausea from his laboring heart rocked his stomach. He couldn’t wait to sit down. They were regulars enough that the first round appeared before them as if by magic. Jon sank into the conversation around him, sipping from his pint, wishing it was water, and interjecting when he felt up to it. Martin kept staring at him. Jon didn’t have the energy to pretend.
“Oh come on, boss! Our company can’t be that boring!” Tim was three drinks in and clapped Jon hard enough on the shoulder to rattle his bones. Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted iron.
“Ah, no, just a long week.” His voice was papery as a wasp nest, thin and drawn. “Looking forward to a lie in.”
“Aren’t we all?” Tim drained his glass and Jon looked down at the worn scratched surface of the table to hide his irrational irritability with the statement. He didn’t corner the market on sleeping in. The others deserved a restful weekend just as much as he did.
“I’m surprised you managed to make it through Elias’ busy work.” Sasha murmured, selecting a chip and using it as a means for sauce delivery.
“Martin helped a great deal.”
“That’s kind of you to say, Jon, but we know who worked his way through the majority.” They exchanged a warm smile.
“Yes, well. Any you did, I didn’t have to. It was very much appreciated.” Martin was bright red and Jon’s cheeks were warm, from alcohol or otherwise, and Tim’s cawing laughter rang bright as a bell over the cacophony around them.
“You’ve broken him, Jon!” They caroused well into the evening until Martin mercifully faked a yawn and explained he had an early morning. Jon almost hugged him and if it weren’t for the state of his shoddy joints he may well have. Holding up a very drunk and very affectionate Tim, Sasha nodded to him.
“This was lovely.” Her grin beamed. “We’ll have to do this again.”
Jon dreaded it.
That month they dragged Jon out to the shops for lunch a few times each week. Catching dinner after work became a regular occurance. Sasha hosted a movie night one weekend. Friday nights at the pub continued.
Jon wasn’t sure which was worse; the exhaustion or the steadily increasing pain, but it felt worth it when the frosty attitude began to thaw. They were still friends. That’s what counted even though the littlest tasks had become huge when faced with choosing which ones to do at the cost of himself. He knew better and still he was overspending, going into the red just to collect more and more debt with no way to catch up other than lose his friends. Something was going to break. Jon hoped it wouldn’t be him.
Groggy, slow, Jon came to with his cheek mashed into the statement he’d been skimming. Something was...wrong. His heart. Racing, pounding against his breastbone, trying to hammer its way to freedom or jump straight out his throat. He blinked hard, trying to bring anything into focus and failing. The first attempt to stand had him face down on the desk again, the next he took in steps.
Sit up. Let the room stop moving.
Breathe. In. Out. Count them.
Ignore the agonized beating. Ignore the fear that came with it.
Stand. Slow. Wait. Patient.
Let the world fall still.
Jon didn’t bother picking up his bag. His phone, wallet, keys, all in his trouser pockets.
“Sorry all. I. I think.” He paused, gulping for air, swallowing none. “Need to go, go home.” If what made it out of him were even close to words he’d consider himself lucky. His tongue was thick and clumsy in his mouth, tripping up the syllables fighting their way past the rabbit-quick hammering,
hammering,
hammering.
“What’s wrong?” Sasha was at his elbow, Tim halfway out of his seat.
“Not feeling well.”
“You sure you can get home, boss?” Nodding absently Jon made his way carefully to the lift before Martin could offer to call him a cab or something equally ridiculous.
Muscle memory got him back to his flat and it wasn’t until he collapsed into bed that he remembered it was Friday and he’d again ducked out on drinks again. Tears collected on his lashes, slipping down his temples when his trembling got the better of them. They. This. All his hard work and he’d undone it. Before the encroaching black overtook him he fumbled with his phone, tapping out an apology to the group chat and barely managing to hit send.
He slipped in and out. Lucid one moment, hallucinating the next, burning away to nothing and ending up on the floor more than once after passing out attempting to, to…didn’t matter. There wasn’t enough in him to attempt it again, opting to lay flat on his back in the sweat soaked sheets trying not to move for the pain. For a wild, hysterical moment Jon was sure he would die here, alone, phone just out of reach, melting in wretched heat and so uncomfortably hot it was difficult to remember a time when he wasn’t.
Jon hurt.
Everything was darkness and agony. Each tremor an earthquake threatening to tear him apart. He was trapped in treacle, done up in bits of twine, strung together with razor wire and unable to move. It was a familiar voice that clawed its way down to him. Lifted him up, low and soft, a stone tumbling down a mountain and catching Jon up in the landslide. He thought he answered, made some attempt at a response, drawn out of him like water from a well. Hurting and disoriented Jon drifted. Consciousness slipping in and out through his fingers like the surf, breath like coals banked beneath his ribs. Jon’s body wouldn’t cooperate as it should and time seemed to skip from one moment to the next between long bouts of nothing.
A heavy palm, cool and comforting, came to rest over his forehead and Tim materialized out of nowhere, startling Jon enough that he keened when each joint shrieked and protested at his moving.
“Sh, sh, shh.” Tim. That’s right...he wasn’t sure it was true, but he was wiping down his over sensitive skin with a damp flannel to quell the coals for a handful of moments.
“Wha’s..?”
“When you didn’t come in yesterday or this morning, we figured we should check on you.” So many words. Too many to parse more than a few but the flood came anyway, streaking into his greasy hair because he’d been sure no one would come and Tim kept applying the cold compress; wrung, applied, repeated, and Jon sobbed with the simple relief of it, tears cool against the incandescence of his skin.
“Are you...l’leaving?” He winced at the raw scrape of his voice against his vocal cords. “Been. You’been s’so angry with m’me.” Tim’s face fell and Jon wanted to apologize. It was the illness, that’s all, lowering his defenses and simmering his many insecurities just below a fractured awareness that refused to keep them in where they belonged. Instead his breath hitched and he choked on a whimper of defeat. “Tri’tried so hard ‘nd still. M’sorry.”
“It’s alright.” So unbelievably soft. Jon thought he’d ruined this long ago and the tears came somehow faster. “I think we need to call an ambulance, bud.”
“No...nonono…” Jon didn’t want to be poked and prodded by strangers and stuck full of needles alone in a cold sterile room. Even in his ragged state Jon could see Tim was torn. “Pl’please.”
“Okay, okay,” he soothed, gentling him with a touch. “But if you can’t keep this down we have to go.” Medicine. Lucozade. Fed to him mouthful by mouthful in the intervals he was awake.
Quiet sounds he recognized, Martin. Sasha. Hushed. Martin tipped the next sip into him and Jon wasn’t aware of much, but he was aware enough to know he was disgusting after having slept and sweated in the same bedclothes for days. Martin wouldn’t hear of it and Jon didn’t know where to put all the feelings and he was so tired of crying and couldn’t seem to stop.
Sasha, they told him, has gone out for supplies and they asked if he’d like help getting out of his uncomfortable trousers and button down, now missing several buttons no doubt from his restlessness. Jon didn’t trust his voice, only nodded, trying and failing to sit up, losing consciousness entirely when one of them levered him up with an arm behind his shoulders. Tim was explaining it to Martin when he came around, peering up at them through fluttering lashes.
“S’al’...” Clumsy, the words wouldn’t come to him.
Together, they shift his limbs, passing him back and forth between, one moment resting against Martin’s chest, another tucked into the hollow where Tim’s shoulder and neck meet. He should be helping but he can barely stay with them, just concentrating on the pulse currently beneath his ear to ground him. Carefully, as though he is some precious thing, they rid him of the awful, disagreeable stickiness and their low murmuring seems such an intimate thing. He isn’t worth it. This. And then soft, clean clothes, well worn and familiar and when Jon surfaces again he’s with Tim on the sofa, bundled up and more comfortable than he’d been in months.
Martin is changing his sheets.
“I’m sorry, Jon.” He didn’t know what for and shook his head, or tried anyway. “Made you think you had to push yourself like that. Ignored how exhausted you were and guilt tripped you into not telling us ‘no’.” Lord, so many words, Jon dizzied himself trying to catch them, hold them, decipher them. “You should be able to trust us, and I.” A suspicious sniff. “I’m sorry.” Jon relaxed into him with a hum he hoped conveyed something.
“I think I remembered which meds he tolerated best.” Sasha elbowed her way into the flat, face lighting up when she saw he was awake. Kind of. “Jon! Thank god. You were in such a bad way.” Whispery and rushed, the same feeling in it as with Tim. “Let's get you dosed up and back to bed, okay?”
It was late evening judging by the window. The reading lamp was on. Martin sat beside him with a book he couldn’t recognize by cover alone.
“Mah’in..?” So it hadn’t all been a hallucination after all.
“There you are.”
“Miss’d work.” He nodded, uncapping a bottle of sports drink and holding it to his chapped lips. Jon drank what he could.
“Not important right now, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Gave us a scare.” Easy, like it was nothing in the world to do it, Martin laid the back of his fingers against his neck, against his throat. “That’s a relief. Tim called us in a panic.” By way of explanation. “But I think you’re past the worst of it now.”
“Don’, don’ remember.”
“Probably for the best. We’ve decided, if you’re alright with the arrangement, that one of us should stay with you.” That sounded okay even if normally Jon would fight it tooth and nail. He did remember being alone and scared. “Tim and Sash are talking. I get the feeling we missed something very important.”
“Mm.” Jon tried to sit up and swooned, came around with a pillow behind his back.
“Dunno if I’ll get used to that any time soon though, I’ll be honest.”
“Happens sometimes. Th’that’s why…” Martin picked up the thread.
“You cancelled on us. I understand. And I hope, I hope you know you can always tell me, us, I hope, when you need to. There’s no shame in it. I’ll admit, I’m upset with Tim.” He fussed with the quilts, smoothing out imaginary creases. “He knew this was something to look out for and he didn’t tell me.”
“No, it’s--”
“Nothing to be embarrassed about.” Martin spoke with conviction. “Ever. I don’t want you to, to push yourself like this for a blasted game night. We can do other things as a department. Things that don’t jeopardize your health like this again.”
“Martin’s right.” Sasha sat at his feet, draping a hand over his ankle, and Tim stood at the foot of the bed. He looked proper chastised, eyes rimmed in red and swollen from crying.
“I’m so sorry, Jon. So sorry. I should never--I was angry and frustrated and used it to. To hurt you. Make you think we’d stop being friends over a stupid night out. Not like I lifted a hand to help you! When I knew you wouldn’t ask a second time!”
“S’okay.”
“It’s not!” Tim was a staunch friend. The type who got to know you so well and sometimes aimed too precisely at your soft parts. He didn’t need another telling off. Exhaustion lapping at his limbs, Jon curled his fingers in poor imitation of a come hither gesture. Willingly, Tim allowed himself to be pulled along by it, slotting himself beside Jon on the mattress to hide his own tears in his chest. Graceless, Jon managed to tug a hand over the back of his head, tangling fingers in Tim's hair, surrounded by friends and not alone.
“Will be, then.”
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