#there is so much going on here. i could dissect every single page with my communications theory textbook

[uzurimisery]

chapter 4: the bluff. / coriolanus snow / nsfw

Rating: Explicit

WC: 6746

Warnings: MDNI, rough sex, he's still insane and possessive, PIV, unprotected sex (this guy is never wearing a condom ever), angry sex, he's not a good guy but he's hot, not beta read

AO3 version | Series master

You slammed the dressing room door shut. “What the hell was that , Coriolanus?” pacing the length of the room, anger seeping out of you. “Did you forget what we were supposed to do? We were supposed to play it off, say we were too young. That was not playing it off! That was proposing!”

In your rage, you stumbled in your heels. He watched you curse under your breath, undoing the strap on them and throwing them across the room. Coriolanus didn’t move, cemented in his spot just past the door.

“Listen to me Y/N,” his tone was stern, like a parent scolding a child. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you did!” you interrupted your voice tinged with sarcasm. “You always do whatever you want, don’t you? Here, the gala, the dinner. Always regardless of the consequences!”

Your words were sharp, digging in the fact that whatever was going on between you two there was meant to be a unified front, a single storyline. You were meant to be partners in the power play, both of you using each other to further your positions. All the work that went into constructing the next five years of the act was undone in an instant.

“I thought we were on the same page, Coriolanus. There was a plan for what we were going to do, but you just fucked it up!” He was always hypercritical of himself, internal monologue pointing out his every mistake, but you doing the same set him off.

“Can you shut up for five seconds! Or are you so self-obsessed that you can't let anyone else get a word in.”

“How dare you try and talk to me about being self-obsessed you narcissistic, unthoughtful-”

“There you go! Proving my point. You can’t even get off your high horse for a minute so I can explain why I did that.”

“You want to explain? Fine then, explain.” you spat.

Coriolanus’ jaw clenched. You were so hot and cold with him. He could never gauge what you really wanted in all of this, and you would never just tell him either.

“I saw an opportunity.”

“For what?”

“To play the part, to make the story so much better. Picture it, Coriolanus Snow, a man who has always been so organised and timely there are articles on how to put your life together like him, rushing into something. He’s so in love with his mentor’s daughter that he proposes to her on stage in front of all of Panem, and he doesn’t even have a ring on him because at that moment he realises that he can’t live without her.”

Your eyebrows were drawn, scanning over his face like you were looking for a fault in what he said, as you dissected it. There was nothing wrong with it though. The show was exactly how he described it. It painted him as a kind and caring man, beyond his known abilities at game making.

“You should have told me ahead of time.”

“I didn’t have a chance. I thought of it while getting ready.” he was lying, and you could tell. Seeing through lies was your speciality. He hadn’t thought about it while getting ready.

You called him on his bluff. “Bullshit. You didn’t have any plan, that was all impulse.” you were digging your finger into his chest to make your point. “You could have ruined everything we’ve been working on, made the past year pointless. What if I hadn’t followed along? What if I lost my composure for your little outburst? It’s not just your future on the line here Coriolanus. I’m leaving.”

Your shoulder bumped into his as you moved to walk out of the room, but his arm wrapped around your waist pulling you back and lifting you off the ground.

“Y/N,” he started.

“Let me go!”

“You don’t get to walk away from me. You need to listen to me.”

“I’m done listening to you, put me down!”

“Well, I’m not done talking!” Coriolanus pushed your back against the wall, pinning you in place.

Why couldn’t you just listen to him like you normally did? Why were you so upset with him? What he did was off-script but it still looked good, and it still achieved your shared goals. You didn’t get to walk away from him when he was right.

You slapped him, still able to move your arms. “I told you to let me go.” He tasted blood in his mouth. When he smiled at you, you felt your blood run cold.

“Are you done?” His teeth had traces of blood on them.

You weren’t about to be intimidated by him. You didn’t cower or beg anyone, and that included Coriolanus Snow. “Let. Me. Go.” your demands fell on deaf ears.

His smile only widened, eyes glistening with a sinister light. You thought he’d be furious with you, and hated that you were out of control, but it seemed more like he enjoyed it. That he liked it when you fought back.

“I told you Y/N, I’m not done talking.”

You moved to slap him again but were met with your wrists being grabbed and pinned above your head, utterly defenceless for whatever happened next. The expectation for him to strike you back weighing in the air. But he didn’t. Instead, his lips met yours, forcing your mouth open and letting his tongue in. You tried to fight back but he bit down on your lip and stopped you. His tongue only became more insistent. Copper on both your tongues.

You didn’t hate it. You were still mad at him, obviously, but the sexual tension that always between the two of you beckoned, its tendrils wrapping around you. Who said some angry sex wasn’t the solution to your being mad at him?

Your teeth clacked against each other as you jumped up, wrapping your legs around his midsection. Coriolanus’ free hand moved to support you. Standing like this he was able to grind his hips against yours, the friction delicious. The kiss was messy, both of you trying to prove something to the other with it.

When you pulled apart for air you spoke. “Let me go.” His breath was laboured, just as yours was, the rough makeout session leaving the both of you breathless.

“Not a chance, sweet girl.”

His grip on your wrists loosened, letting you slip free to pull at his hair, connecting your mouths once again. Your moans mixed with his own, body rolling to press your clothed pussy over his erection. Even though he had picked you up a multitude of times, it was always surprising how strong he actually was. His slim build did not give away how strong he actually was.

Everything between you was primal, driven by lust and anger.

Coriolanus brought you over to the couch, dropping you on your back. He liked you best like this, on your back and needy. Your high horse forgotten, and the only thing you rode him. The both of you took care to remove your clothes carefully, neither wanting to deal with a lecture from Tigris as well as knowing you had a dinner to attend in them after this. But that was where the caution ended.

The moment you were naked he had his fingers stretching you open with his thumb toying at your clit. His mouth was all over your skin, biting your breasts, adding to the marks already covering you. He was so rough with you and made you feel so small. But god did he know exactly what to do to you.

Your moans were sharp as he brought you to an orgasm. Everything you did drove him up a wall. Every time he thought he could move past it, ignoring the feeling, your pussy sucked him back in. It was your fault he made a mistake, that he lost his composure, that he went off script. He wanted access to your warmth whenever he wanted.

No matter how much he consumed you, he was still hungry, the type of hunger he hadn’t felt since the war. The one with claws that tore at his insides, teeth grinding into his bones. A bottomless pit that could never be filled. It clouded his mind with thoughts of you, your breasts and hips, the pout of your lips. He could almost always feel the sensation of you against him, biting into your soft flesh. It made him emotionally volatile, willing to risk everything for just a crumb. But every time he got a bite it filled him with dread.

Your perfume, boozy and peachy, a reminder that the only thing that would ever fill this hole was you. That when he was on the brink of death, starving and empty, it was you who would nourish him. Your being the very source of all his problems and all his solutions at the same time. A double-edged sword driving into his heart with every step he took towards you.

“See? Look how good you have it when you just behave.” you weren’t out of it yet, still able to spite back in vitriol.

“Fuck you.”

“Already have.” Coriolanus flipped you on your front, positioning you on your knees with your chest pressed against the couch.

Like this, he got to spread you open, look at what your body could offer him. Why did you have to be you? Why did you have to rival his mind and have such a perfect body? It ruined everything.

His fingers pressed back into you. He could watch you drip down them for hours, whiny and whimpering from his actions. Begging him to fuck you. No matter how you tried to act like you weren’t. You were just like him. Hungry and waiting.

Coriolanus lined up his cock with your entrance. Instead of easing into you, he thrust in fully, jolting your body forward. He wanted it to hurt, to make you feel sorry for blowing up at him. To show you that no matter how you acted out he could fuck you back into place.

He fucked you hard and fast, pulling your head back by your hair. It forced you up and to put your hands on the back of the couch. Your back arched, your shoulders almost against his chest. His other hand pinched at your nipples and tugged at them. It hurt, the perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

Moving his hand out of your hair, his fingers hooked into the side of your mouth. “Your mouth can be used for better things than being disrespectful.” your drool pooled around them, dribbling out the side of your mouth as you spoke.

“I’m gonna cum.” your speech altered from his fingers.

“I don’t care.” he did care, but he couldn’t let you know that, not right now. The biggest ego death to him would be if he was unable to make you cum. It fed his ego every time you clenched down around him, pussy fluttering from your orgasm. He didn’t slow down or let up, fully intent on taking his frustration out on you.

The air between you was hot and heavy, thick with the smell of sex. With his hands free, your waist became his new hold stone. Coriolanus didn’t even have to pull your hips to meet his, you were doing that for him, bucking backwards in time. Each trust had you panting little praises for him.

He wanted to see your face. You felt him pull out of you and then sit down on the couch next to you. “Ride me.”

You shifted, placing your knees on either side of him as you sunk down on his length. When you got to the base, you took a moment to recollect yourself, head tucked into the crook of his neck. Coriolanus’ lips found the crown of your head before he even recognised what he was doing. It was odd. This intimate act in the midst of all of this. He wanted to show you that he cared, that he wasn’t mad at you anymore. Why wasn’t he mad at you anymore? He was the type to let his anger fester, angry with infection. He waited until the moment was right and then he spread his sickness, cutting down whoever upset him. You were more useful than being cut down; however, he felt strongly towards you. The one thing he wouldn’t do is name those feelings.

The drag of your hips cut off his line of thought. He watched as you rode him, your thighs shaky but not letting it stop you. When you pulled your head out to kiss him he met you, enjoying the feeling of your lips against his. Hair and makeup would have a hay day with the two of you but the way you went all the way up, his tip the only thing inside you, to then your ass flush with his thighs made their annoyance worth it. Wanting to feel you cum around him again, his thumb began circling your clit, working you up to another orgasm.

“I’m close.”

“I know.”

Your hips slowed as you came, exhausted from riding him. But Coriolanus wasn’t done. His hand wrapped around your waist, moving you to an elevated position with his dick still inside you, and he began thrusting up into you. “Hold yourself just like that sweet girl.” You did as he told you, your head lulling to the front pressing your forehead against his. With a few final thrusts, he came inside you. You were winded, your eyes closed as he guided your bodies apart and grabbed a disposal west wipe to clean the both of you up. Finally, with that done, he could lay down and settle you on top of him, both of you naked and sweaty.

Neither of you spoke for a while, just listening to each other breathe, your head on his chest.

“I’m sorry.” apologises always felt like he was trying to speak a foreign language, his tongue struggling to make the sounds. “I shouldn’t have acted impulsively.”

“I'm sorry too. I shouldn’t have blown up on you.” his fingers traced your hairline as you lay on top of him, still reeling from the sex. “I just don’t like when things don’t go to plan, and they’ve not been going to plan between us.”

He couldn’t argue against that. Everything was so fuzzy between you. He didn’t know what you were feeling, but his feelings were you weren’t something he could ignore. When he said that he couldn’t picture his life without you it was true. He thought that speaking it out to the world would alleviate the pressure, and make it something he could keep inside himself, but he didn’t. He needed you to know that it meant it.

“Would it be so bad, marrying me?”

You picked your head up. “No,” you sighed. “It wouldn’t be.” He watched you find your original position, ear over his heart.

“We could be allies.” his heart pounded as you traced patterns on his skin. “You’re the first person I’ve met I’d consider that with. I could make you the First Lady of Panem.”

Being the First Lady was an appealing idea. You’d be able to do so much more in that position. It was a core belief of yours that the games were only the first step in binding the loyalty of the country, to furthering the control over the populace. Aid programs needed to be doled out in the Districts. People who were content were less likely to look behind the curtain and see what was really happening.

“What happens when you fall in love with someone? Would we divorce and I’d lose everything, both the games and my position?” there was uncertainty in your voice.

There could never be someone after you. You were it for him. Sure he could find a docile wife and marry her, leave her be and just have kids with her. But she could never truly know him. But you could, and you were learning the true him. And you wouldn’t make him separate his work and home life, you’d dive into it with him, lethal and cunning.

“That won’t happen,” he was blunt with his statement. “You’re the only one I could do this with.”

It felt like the weight was finally lifting off him some. The pressure that had been building and threatening to blow, to whistle like a kettle. As much as he had intended for your relationship to be a temporary political alliance, he wanted it to be permanent. He didn’t trust people, but he was growing to trust you, knowing that your goals were ultimately the same.

“But what if it does?” He had never seen you so worried about his feelings, genuine concern. “Or what if I fall in love with someone else?”

“Y/N,” his thumb brushed your lips, making you face him again. “I promise you that is never going to happen. Okay?”

“Okay.”

With a final look of determination, kissed you, his lips bruising against your own. He was hoping that it conveyed that he meant it with all his heart. He was never going to fall in love with someone else, the home you made in his heart was always going to be yours. The decor exactly how you left it if you ever walked away, waiting for you to come back. You’d never get the chance to walk away but that was the sentiment, that he could forgive you for leaving him if he took you back and you stayed with him. A dove with a broken wing was still a dove. It might not be able to soar in the slides, free from the gravity of the world, but it was still a dove. Even if he broke you and locked you up, you’d still be you.

He could never love another, not when he loved you. Coriolanus loved you. The realisation shook him, a tempestuous collision of the man he was and the man he wanted to be. The crack formed by Lucy Gray was broken open once again by you. He had convinced himself that love was a weakness, that it was something to be exploited. Over the past year of getting to know you, getting to be with you, you had challenged his core beliefs, forcing him to confront the fact that he loved you.

It was hard admitting it to himself. Just hours earlier he had told Tigris off for even suggesting the idea of it, vehemently denying it. He didn’t want to love you then, terrified at the idea of you finding out and leaving. But you had said it wouldn’t be so bad to be married to him, that you’d be willing to be allies for the rest of your life. The truth was there though, written into every interaction he had with you. The glaring reality that he could no longer ignore, lingered in his eyes like a burned-in image.

It was terrifying, the exact opposite of the control he wanted to have over those around him, to have you control his heart. The practised emotional detachment he had led his life with failed in his darkest hour. The fear that you’d be just like Lucy Gray and run. It didn’t matter that you both worked on the games, that he had seen you develop new ways to punish the Capitol’s enemies, that you had just as much darkness within you as he did. That you were as ruthless as he was. The betrayal he had once experienced at the hands of a District dog had him petrified of it happening again.

Could he erase your existence like he did hers if something happened? The thought was both horrifying and tempting. He didn’t want it to come to that, to erase you, to discard you like a broken toy. You were better than Lucy Gray, you wouldn’t betray him. He wouldn’t let you. But he couldn’t come to you with this, not yet. Coriolanus Snow needed you to break down and beg him to tell him that he loved you. When he could see you, lost in your feelings for him, then he could tell you. Not before, not after. But at the moment when you are in desperate need of him, he could tell you. Only then could he believe that you loved him too.

______________________________________

Things have been busy since then and luckily you have been able to avoid conversation with your mother too. Coriolanus and you had no time to talk about your game plan and what would've happened next as the games started. Every day you were at the Citadel, ensuring things ran smoothly. He was there too, doing his own work, but the amount you had to do kept you from each other. It wasn’t until after the games ended that the two of you got a moment alone. Of course, you had been to several events together but you couldn't talk about things there. So when the last person left the production room, you were finally alone with him.

“Did you mean what you said that night on the balcony, that it was hard pretending that you loved me?”

The two of you were in his private lab. You were sitting on the edge of his desk instead of a chair, something he noticed you liked to do. After the cameras had been turned off you had taken your hair down from the pinned updo made of a braid, letting the braid hang loose.  The heels you were wearing off your feet and lost in the room. Coriolianus’ head was in your lap as your fingers brushed through his hair. The slight stubble he’d grown over the last two days catching on your tights.

His voice was muffled by your thigh. “No.”

“No you didn't mean it or no it isn’t hard pretending that you love me?” Your fingers were putting him to sleep. It had been so long since he had been touched like this. He only had one strong memory of his mother. They had been sitting before the fire, her belly full with his younger sister, her finger running through his, much like your own, singing a song he couldn’t remember now, the melody lost with time.

“No,” he finally replied, groggy. “It’s not hard pretending that I love you”

There was a flicker of hope within you when he first confessed to you that night on the balcony. You had convinced yourself that he was being vulnerable with you then, letting you in. Was this him adding kindling to that fire or dousing it?

“Is it easy then?” Each word was laced with intrigue and tinged with trepidation. The question wormed itself into the conversation, hanging in the air like the hum of the machinery. He tensed under you like he had been unprepared for this conversation, a betrayal of how he normally was.

Coriolanus’ response was slow, deliberate and weighted, with every individual syllable chosen carefully. “No, it’s not easy either.” The threading of your fingers felt so good against his scalp, it was criminal. “It’s neither easy nor hard, it’s necessary.” He shrugged with that statement, drowsy from the long day and your actions.

It was strange seeing him like this, his head in your lap as he was half asleep. The Coriolanus you knew was a man of fronts, never betraying his persona of unwavering composure and unyielding strength. He was smart and capable, bringing the Snow family back from the brink of destruction. But now there was no front present. He was relaxed and open, the tension in his shoulders finally released as he rested on your thighs. You could see every pore of skin, every hair out of place. There was a faint scar above his lip, so blended with his skin that you had never seen it before. It had access to the same medical and cosmetic treatments as you did meaning that he had left this one there on purpose. A reminder of something that had happened to him.

You chewed on his words as you watched him. It was neither easy nor hard pretending that he loved you, it was necessary. It was a non-answer, a refusal to tell you his feelings on the matter, that itself a revealing statement. He was used to his words working on others, his honied lips spinning the sweetest lies. But you had watched him, seen him change over the years. Coriolanus was a man burdened with his own demons that sat at the table with him. There was an understanding in that. You had your own demons that sat in the corner of your room every night, watching you sleep and whispering dangerous things. Neither of you were innocent good-hearted people, both of you violent and deadly.

But his cracks were showing, and that night under the stars with too much to drink, he had let you see just how much they were cracking. You were willing to pick up the pieces and help him put them back together. Your own feelings were the same as his, you were just better at hiding it.

“My father wants us to have an engagement party.”

“When?”

“In two weeks at my family estate,” knowing your father, it was going to be a spectacle. He doted on you. “But he wants to have a private dinner before that, just your family and mine.” His only family was Grandma’am and Tigris. If you wanted to, you could count the Plinths as family, even though he hated the thought of having any relationship with them.

“That’s fine. I’m sure Grandma’am will be excited, she’s been pestering me about marrying you while she’s still alive to see it.”

“She wants you to marry me?”

He murmured some form of agreement, still out of it. “She says you make me smile like I haven’t since I was a boy. It’s annoying actually, she keeps demanding that I bring you around for lunch.” This was news. Your interactions with Grandma’am had always been under the pretence of public events, you never thought much of them, but apparently she had. More than that, she thought more of your effect on her grandson.

“You should be kinder to her, you don’t know how long she’s got left.”

Coriolanus’ head lifted from your lap, rubbing his eyes as he propped his head up on a hand. “I know,” it wasn’t nice to have to think about the fact his Grandma’am was up there in age, that she maybe had another 15 years left. If that. “I’ll tell her we’ll do lunch then.”

Your smile was irresistible. “Good. The least you can do for her is let her think that you’ve found someone you genuinely love, and who loves you just as much. She’ll never know that it's just an act either. It’ll let her rest easy knowing you’re taken care of.”

His heart sank, and his stomach dropped out and onto the ground.

“Yeah, it’s a good act too.”

______________________________________

Coriolanus paced in the foyer, stopping every so often his fingers fidgeting with the knot of his tie, loosening and tightening it. His outfit was simple and smart today. His father's button-up with a red tie, a grey pinstripe waistcoat and matching trousers. The black leather of his oxfords had been polished earlier in the morning. He felt antsy, just wanting to get this luncheon over with. He shouldn’t have told you that Grandma’am wanted this, he must have been out of his mind when he did.

“Coriolanus my boy,” Grandma’am had snuck up behind him, making him jump as she put her hands on his shoulders. “You look as handsome as always, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

His smile was weak in the mirror, not reaching his eyes. “Thank you Grandma’am.” She fiddled with the shoulder of his shirt, lining it up properly as it had been moved from his walking around.

“You must really love her if it’s got you like this.”

“I do.” The words were heavy. This was the first time he had acknowledged his feelings for you to another person. The vulnerability threatened to consume him.

“I’m glad,” her eyes became teary as she spoke. “Your mother loved your father so much. I remember their wedding day. She was so nervous, running around like a rabbit. You remind me of her sometimes.” she threw her hands up like the statement was outlandish. “But of course, you’re more like your father than anything else. Strong Coriolanus Snow.”

They rarely talked about his parents, or Tigris’ parents, like this. It was easier for them all to let the dead stay dead. A bittersweet ache spread through him.

“I’m glad.” He reached out and took Grandma's hand, offering her some comfort. Talking about her dead children always set her off. They stood in silence for a beat, hand in hand, each processing their own feelings before he shattered the quiet.

“It’s easier to let the dead stay dead.”

Grandma’am nodded, her handkerchief to her eye to clean up the tears she had spilt. “Sometimes,” she acknowledges, “the past is too painful to revisit. But it’s important to remember Coriolanus. To remember the love, the laughter, the life that was lived. To honour those who came before you.”

But he didn’t want to remember the past. The past made everything worse.

The ring of the elevator cut the conversation short. You were here, and he was nervous. This was no different than a public event, you both knew the parts to play, but it was so different at the same time. You were in his family home, eating with him and his Grandma’am, and doing it purely because you thought she deserved to think someone loved him. Doing it because you cared for her. It was here that his history echoed, ghosts of the past hanging on every wall. Remnants of the boy he once was tucked away in boxes, now dusty with age.

As the elevator doors opened, revealing you standing there, those boxes came out of storage and were placed on the table for you to sort through.

“Oh! Miss Gaul! Please come in.” Grandma’am rushed towards you, excited to have you over.

“Grandma’am,” you chided, pulling her into a hug. She had shrunk in her old age and your heels didn’t help the equation, making you bend down to do so. “I’ve told you a thousand times to call me Y/N. Plus soon enough I’ll Mrs. Snow.”

“I know, I know, I just forget sometimes. Perhaps I should just call you Mrs. Snow!”

“Now I think that’s a wonderful idea!” You took a second to greet Coriolanus with a kiss and then went back to chatting with Grandma’am taking her hands in your own.

You were so delicate with her, it pained him to watch you be so kind to her. You nodded along diligently to whatever she said and were actively engaging in the conversation. He could tell that you weren’t pretending to care and that you actually wanted to speak with his grandmother. She was so animated with you like years had been removed from her. He had spent so long trying to protect her from all that had happened, and all that he had done. His actions had severed parts of their relationship, and with Tigris not living in the apartment anymore, she must have grown lonely. But you brought her back, the vibrant woman who could connect with the world.

Coriolanus sidled up to you, arm wrapping around your waist. “I hate to interrupt your conversation ladies, but I do believe Y/N came here for lunch.” It felt so right to have you like this.

“Yes, yes, Coriolanus,” Grandma’am started, “I’ll go make sure the cook has prepared everything. Why don't you show Y/N into the dining room.”

“Of course, Grandma’am.”

Alone, he nipped at your ear, his breath making your heart skip a beat. His hands were warm, one placed on your stomach the the other on your arm. You could smell the mint on his breath when he uttered a whisper in your ear, his voice low and husky. “You look stunning today.”

You were wearing all black today, something that went against the average Capitol woman. It was a high neck mini dress, stopping a few inches above your knee. The sleeves were long, longer than your hands and instead of normal holes, the fabric was spliced up to your elbow. Your heels were lower than they normally were from press events, no doubt more comfortable. The splash of colour came from your earrings. They were red, with a velvety coating on them, and shaped like rose petals separated and hung on a chain. You had remembered Grandma’am’s love of roses.

“It’s not for you, you know.” you took every opportunity to tease him. “But thank you.”

You had no idea what you did to him. “If it were for me it’d be on the floor by now.”

“Well then, it’s a good thing this is for Grandma’am and not you.” You patted his cheek. “Now are you going to show me to the dining room Coriolanus?” When you said his name you mirrored the way his Grandma’am said it.

A crooked grin rose on his face with a small laugh. “With pleasure, my dear,” he replied biting your ear again before leading you through the grand hallways of the apartment. His hand never left your back until you were sat down. You were on Coriolanus’ right, with his chair being at the head of the table.

The table was smaller than the average dining room table in the Capitol, unsurprising given the number of Snow family members there were left. It looked to seat about 10 people maximum. It was a dark-stained wood, a style that was popular in the prewar days. The walls were a pale blue, covered in a patterned wallpaper. The signature tile flooring of the apartment was carried into the dining room, laid in a geometric style with the table in the centre. It was all a testament to the family’s long history and enduring presence in the Capitol, a microcosm of the Capitol itself.

“Have you told her about the dinner?”

“No I haven’t had a chance yet-”

“What dinner?” Grandma’am sauntered into the room, waiting for Coriolanus to pull out her seat so she could sit. “The cook prepared quite a  lunch today,” she listed out the menu after she sat down, Coriolanus returning to his own seat, arms resting on the table.

“That all sounds wonderful Grandma’am. Corio’s told me how wonderful your chef is.”

“Yes, I do agree. It took me ages to find one that I liked, so many of them are lacklustre these days.”

“Well I hope my family’s chef won't disappoint you then.” you grabbed his hand on the table. “My father wanted me to invite you to a family dinner on Friday evening. It’s just a small get-together to introduce everyone to each other properly. After all, we’ll be one family soon.

“Oh, that is a wonderful idea! I’ve always had such admiration for your father’s interior design work.” Grandma’am's voice faded out for Coriolanus as she spoke. Rambling about how your father had ‘brought back the elegance of the Capitol’ through his job. Coriolanus was focused on one thing.

You were wearing the ring. He had gone in between rings for what felt like a millennium till settling on a custom made. It was reminiscent of the one he remembered his mother wearing, covered in diamonds and made of gold. Your was made of platinum, far more durable than gold and less like the be damaged by your time in the labs and only plated in gold. The centre stone was large, 1.5 carats, an emerald cut diamond. The style of the ring was similar to an ornate mirror. There were 22 stones in total, each one glittering from the chandelier's light. He hadn't stopped with just the one ring either, he needed to decorate you in the finest jewels he could buy with the Plinth family fortune. That's why your index finger had a stack of thinner, geometric, stack complimenting the engagement ring.

It thrilled him. Wedding rings were no more than a shackle connecting you to him. A show of his authority over you. Marrying you wasn’t about companionship, it was to own you. To change your last name to his own and let everyone know that he would never leave you alone. Maybe he’d let you hyphenate your last name, and you’d like that, it went against the norm.

His thumb rubbed against his own engagement ring. His was simpler, he didn’t enjoy the over-the-top couture and showmanship of the Capitol, a think gold plated platinum band with a matching kite cut diamond flush set into it. The kite shape echoed by etchings around the placement. You had picked the ring out for him after seeing your own, saying that you wanted it to match with yours. It was ironic that you chose a kite shape. They flew high in the sky, a symbol of freedom and soaring ambition.

The luncheon was nice, you had to admit. You didn’t have a living grandmother and it was nice to talk with Grandma’am as you ate. She kept telling stories of Coriolanus’ youth, much to his chagrin. The stories, and how he treated her, were different than what you had expected. He was cold towards Tigris, but he had so much warmth towards Grandma’am. What had happened between the two that caused a rift? Grandma’am spoke as if the two had been thick as thieves growing up.

When the plates were cleared, you joined Grandma’am in the kitchen as she made coffee for the two of you, Coriolanus somewhere in the apartment answering a message on his communicuff. You had offered to do it but she insisted on doing it herself, telling you that the machine was too complicated for a guest to use. But you know exactly how to use it, but that was a secret.

When she sat across from you, both your mugs steaming, her eyes were sombre. “Can you be honest with a foolish old woman?”

“I don’t see any old women here, but I can be honest.” her chuckle was wethered and dry, telling of someone who had lived through too much.

“I know my Coriolanus is a difficult man,” she always insisted on using his full name. “He’s much like his father in that regard, and I would know having raised them both. But you’re good for him. When I see him with you it's like all the horrible things he had to live through are forgotten, and that he’s that smiling boy  running around the apartment with his mother chasing after him again.” Grandma’am’s voice broke as the spoke, teetering on the edge of crying.

You grabbed her hand and squeezed it. She loved him so much.

“I love him Grandma’am, I really do.” candour in every word you spoke. “With him, I feel like I can do anything, be anything. Sometimes I think it’s all too good to be true and that one day I’ll wake up and this was all a dream that I had. Every day I pinch myself to make sure it's still real.”

“Will you always?” 

“There’s no future in which I don’t love him. He’s my now and always. And even if one day we weren’t together anymore, I’d still love him and I’d still support him. Just like he’d do the same for me.”

As you spoke Grandma’am’s tears flowed freely, but they weren’t tears of sadness, they were tears of gratitude. She saw in you that she didn’t have to worry anymore, that someone other than her would love him unconditionally. Be a sanctuary to his troubled heart.

“Thank you.” as the older woman bawled you got up to hug her, rubbing her back as she sobbed.

Coriolanus had heard the whole thing but he couldn’t tell if you had said it for her or it was a confession of your true feelings. You were always perfect at playing your part.

taglist: @serrendiipty @namelesslosers @glitteryblizzardsalad

#tdoaa #the death of an actor #uzuri writes #young coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow smut #coriolanus snow x reader #corio snow #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus snow #coriolanus x you #coriolanus snow x you #tbosas #the hunger games imagine #hunger games imagine #hunger games smut #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #thg fanfiction #smut #coriolanus snow x reader smut

[hellyeahheroes]

20 Writing Things I Wish I Knew 20 Years Ago

It’s my birthday. At 32 I feel old. I am still full of things I wish I learned earlier, when I started trying to become a writer. A lot of regrets for time wasted and mistakes made. So here is the 20 basic things I wish I knew 20 years ago. Maybe some of it will help someone else save off some time on their own path. If not, maybe you all will have a good laugh.

1. All Advice is Subjective

You will notice a lot of the points on this list are mutually contradictionary or make you go “this is just like an exception to point X”. This is by the design. All advice and all thoughts on writing you will ever read, this list included, is what is working for the person who wrote it, within the framework of their personal perspective and preferences. It may not necessairly work for you. Moreover, I am a person who often goes “but what about...?” when being told something only works in a specific way. There is an exception to every rule that is often a different rule  for different purpose. I would even say that every contradictory pair or rules exists on a sliding scale and it is your decision towards which you lean more or whenever you disregard one enteirly in favor of the other. Cherry pick what works for you, disregard the rest, if you find everything I say trash but walk out of this post picking even a single thing you find worth remembering, my time writing it was not wasted.

2. Rules Are Made to Be Broken

One of ironclad rules is that you can never make your hero too strong. That if they can just rollstomp over every opponnent then the tension of the story is enteirly gone and no one will care. We can look at several titles that didn’t listen to it and never gained any fame, now being doomed to obscurity forever, like Hellsing, Overlord or One-Punch Man. Wait, they’re all popular? And most popular superhero of all time is Batman, despite being at this point a giant meme about how he always wins?

(sidenote: don’t come at me with some crap how Batman struggles or you can believe he is in actual danger, it may be just me but I never could beleive he will be anything, but midly inconvenienced at best, since he unbroke his back in the 90′s. Not even when he was laser-point nuked in the face by cosmic god of fascism, from which he walked out perfectly fine btw)

For every rule you will read, there is a perfectly good way, several even, to disregard or break it enteirly. Honestly, you can do whatever you want, as long as you know what you’re doing. As a matter of fact, you should question every rule, even on this list. As I have said before,  they often are made by and for people with specific outlook in life, that reflect on their writing.

Just so you don’t think this is baseless rambling, even the pros are questioning the validity of supposedly fundamental rules all the time. I’ll demonstrate this on a big one: Viet Thanh Nguyen has argued in 2017 that the “show don’t tell” rule, which so many take as gospel, is a rule invented for white people born in country they publish and pretty much useless for POC and immigrant writers, who may often need to describe emotions and experiences impossible to show. Eric Bennet points out the rule was, not even joking, part of CIA’s Cold War propaganda effort. Cecilia Tan on the pages of Uncanny Magazine #18 opens her own dissection of the rule with “ Yes, the dreaded “infodump” is seen as a hallmark of bad writing, but it’s faulty logic to conclude that therefore all infodumps are bad. Try telling that to Neal Stephenson the next time he wants to exposit about Sumerian”.

3. You Cannot Break What You Do Not Know

Fuck ‘em rules, got it? However, you cannot accomplish it without actually knowing the rule, what it does and why people adhere to it. The cases of ignorant gracefully stumbling into a great subversion or a fresh take on a cliche are few and far in between. It’s not that they do not happen. but the chances of you managing to pull it off are too slim to attempt it deliberatelly. If you want to break the rule you first need to understand how it works and where are it’s weak points and most importantly, what happens when you do break it.

4. You Can Have Too Much Of A Good Thing

This really applies to anything I will advise, but since we mentioned breaking the rules and subversion, it comes with perfect illustration. Why did Game of Thrones finale suck so much? In my belief it is because the show was designed on the principle of subverting, deconstructing and defying as many tropes of classic fantasy, chilvaric legends and fairy tales as possible. And that did carry it on for a very long time by the sheer novelty. Then came a moment they had to actually set up the end and creators found themselves in a pickle. Because there was no way to set up a satisfying ending that did not, in one way of another, play into the same tropes and genre conventions they spent so much time tearing down. So they ended with narratively unsatisfying clusterfuck that seems more concerned with defying expectations than actually giving a proper conclusion. Staying true to what got the series popular in the first place and making something that feels narratively complete at the same time turned out to be impossible.

5. Have Something To Say

Everything you write is saying something. Everything that has a story is going to have message, themes and politics. Every book, every comic, every game. People who rush at you with examples trying to prove how such claim is wrong either do not see or willfully deny what lies at the very core of that example. That or said an exception proving the rule. Demanding someone proves to you politics of Tetris only shows that you need to be some abstract nonsense, divorced from any semblance of the narrative to not have politics in it.

You either will say something intentionally through your story and shape it to fit what you are trying to say, or you will do unintentionally. And believe me, people are gonna take different things from your creation anyway, last thing you need is to let something from your messy subconciousness slip through.

Be passionate about the story you tell, be passionate about its message. Speak of things you love, speak of your fears, speak of what angers you. Writer cannot be detached from the world, from life or from people. You’re not a dispassionate, objective observer removed from reality. I get you may be shy, or feel your own experiences aren’t worth talking about. Or maybe the memories are still too painful for you to open that particular wound. That’s okay. But I’m sure you are passionate about something. Even if your work is deriverative in some way. I touched upon it in my previous list. Even if you’re passionate about things like fictional characters or stories, there is likely a deeper meaning to them, that resonates with you. Tap into it.

6. Shut Up

Stories have different levels of clarity. In some it is obvious what is happenning, others intentionally muddle the waters to confuse the audience. Readers should put down your work having clear picture of everything you wanted to make clear. At the same time, they should be full of question and uncertan about things you purposefully left ambigious and unexplained. The former requires no explanations from the author outside the work itself. The latter should never be explained that way. If you find yourself having to go on the record and explain or clarify things you didn’t intend to left out unexplained, you fucked up.

7. Take Care of Your Needs

Don’t write when you’re hungry. Don’t write when you’re sleep deprived. Don’t write when you’re horny. In each of these cases the quality of your work is going to suffer. Even smut needs you to look at a sex scene with a rational, un-horny eye once in a while. Eat a hot dog, take a nap, masturbate. Take care of your needs, then go back to writing. If you know a scene can cause you to crave one of your needs, go take care of that need in advance and THEN write it. Similiarly if you know the writing you’re about to do may hit one of your triggers, prepare the tools of emotional support of your choice at hand.

DISCLAIMER: I have never done drugs aside coffee, not even a smoke. I have no fucking idea how this advice may interact with addictions so please do NOT take it as encouraging you to do that kind of things.

8. Characters Matter More Than The Plot

Plot does not matter as much as people like to think. At the end of day it is merely a framework within which the characters operate and interact. You can craft the most complex, intricate plot ever created. But if it unfolds for a cast of dull cardboard cutouts that have less agency than a pawn on a chessboard and seem more concerned with saying lines that will get them quoted on Tvtropes than experiencing actual human emotions, nobody's gonna give a shit. Great plot will not save the story with bad characters, but the opposite is very much true - if you have great, multi-dimensional characters and respect their choices and agency, people may stick with you even if the base plot is a convoluded storm of cliches and a mess of increasingly nonsensical events. As long as it feels that it is convoluded storm of cliches and a mess of increasingly nonsensical event that the characters made by their own choices and actions.

In RPGs an equivalent of this advice would be “situations, not stories”: Don’t design a story of what is going to happen on a session and then railroad the players to experience it. Create a situation, have a plan how it would develop if the player characters never got involved, then let them wreck it with their own choices and decisions. I’m not sure it is applicable to writing, however. At the end of the day YOU control ALL of the characters. They aren’t real and do not make their own decisions, you do it for them. Ultimatelly all chocies they make are serving to tell the story you want to tell. However if you can convince the readers of the opposite, make them believe that characters make choices in accordance with their personalities, instead of making choices you WANT them to make, that you respect their agency first and foremost...well, that’s what we call a “character-driven story”.

9. Plot and Theme Are Intertwined

Similiar to previous point, themes you are exploring in your story and the message you are telling won’t save it if the events makes no sense. The plot should complete and explore the theme. That means plotting the events that show the protagonist issues related to the theme and force him to take a stance. While showing and exploring opposing viewpoints to intended message can help with that, overall the main character should journey to learn the lesson you want the audience take from this work.  Or, if they have a negative arc, they should learn all the wrong lessons so that the audience can see their downfall as a cautionary tale. If your theme is that murder is wrong but the plot rewards the protagonist for killing until he makes a sudden turn in the finale, suddenly feeling bad for killing a girl he fancied, but not about slaughtering his way through dozens of human beings through the whole story, it will feel jarring. Unless the real message was that the protagonist is a huge asshole, that is.

10. Aesthetic Is Narrative

The stylistic choices, be it in art, set/costumes or description, are part of your narrative and inform the reader what kind of a story it is. Say a character decides to join the good guys and gets a costume change. The moment they step out of changing room will send a different message if that costume is an army uniform, a padded biker suit with red scarf floating on the wind or a black, sleevless leather jacket with a dojo symbol on the back. First one evokes an image of a rebel being brought into the fold and tempered by military discipline, second implies the character’s newfound desire to protect the innocent by bringing to mind Kamen Rider and Tokusatsu heroes, and the last suggests a “reformed, but not tamed” wildcard deciding to fight for the school he respects.

This applies to what the character is wearing but also their overall design, body language, as well as the scenery. Imagine Jenny the Thief, dressed in plain clothes, scuffling nervously through the alley, keeping to the shadows cast by tall castle walls and towers, that the narrator compared to claws of a monster trying to grab sun from the sky. It evokes a much different image that the same Jenny dressed in colorful dress with many acessories, striding confidently, wishing one of palace’s fantastic towers would be casting a shadow on this back alley, so that she doesn’t need to suffer Sun’s full attention.

If you’re working in a medium that utilizes music, this appleis as well. For evidence, listen to 3 different entrance themes of professional wrestler the Undertaker - Rest In Peace, Keep Rollin and Memory Remains - and think about how they evoke a vastly different character.

This is also why an overt sexualization of women is often so cringe-worthy. It’s not that this is always bad (though I despise it on many levels), but it has its place and time. If a vilainess shows up in a skintight latex suit with proportions and body language of a stereotypical dominatrix femme-fatale, you better be writing smut or at least a shamelessly horny pulp, not a hard science story about troubles of long-term space travel.

Important exception, of course, is a deliberate subversion. A character whose looks are supposed to evoke certain set of expectations, only for their personality to be near total opposite, when used properly can make us question the reader’s assumptions and biases. For example, my favorite DC superhero is Cassandra Cain, whose costume as Batgirl evokes an image of typical dark and gritty 90′s antihero, and who actually has stronger moral code against killing than even Batman. Be warned, however, that this subversion must be done deliberatelly and carefully, othertwise it will just become jarring.

11. Google Every Word You Make Up

Stole this one from this very website but it’s worth repeating. If you make up a term, google if it doesn’t mean something unfortunate in some language. I’m just going to point out how at some point Magic the Gathering made a character named Sram and I will never stop laughing at them for that, because in my native tounge “sram” is a very vulgar way of saying “I’m taking a dump”.

12. "Convincing” not “Realistic”

Nobody wants a realistic story. We do not care what would be a realistic outcome of doing X in real life. What people want is to be convinced this could happen. We want to believe this could happen. We can take a lot of a story, even something so over the top fantastical like Gurren Lagann or Devil May Cry. But we need some point of reference for characters actions. Dragons, giant robots, eyes that are portals to punch dimension? We can buy that easily with some bit of handwaving like “divine will” or “the X gene” or “Minkovsky Particles”. What is really important is to convince us the characters are making decisions rational humans would. Not just the characters, but the world itself. We need internal consistency to your world’s rules and to the sociopolitical actions taken by nations and societies of it.

This is why we won’t usually accept in-universe excuses for something we know is a stupid decision. Your heroine can wear an “armor” that is basically just a metal bra because “she cast a spell of protection that defends her as much as a full plate would”? Yeah, that is still going to break my suspension of disbelief. In theory there is no threat to nurses, lawyers or teachers at work. But no woman who wants to be taken seriously in any of these jobs would come to work in a bikini, would she?

I will admit, what one finds convincing can vary from a person to person and may even change within the same person overtime, as their experiences pile up and perspective is refined. You might have seen it in some recent sentiments, like “When I was a kid I found Wheel of Time unrealistic because it was so hard for the heroes to unite the nations of the world against evil. After last few years, I find it unrealistic because they DID manage to unite everyone at all”.

13. Pick Characters Who Contrast Each Other...On Equal Footing

There is a lot of advice on why it is important to make characters who are great foils to one another, especially the protagonist and the antagonist. But what people forget often is that it is important to give them enough ground to stand on equal footing. Enough narrative weight it doesn’t feel one orbits another, existing only to enrich the latter’s story. If in Iron Man II James Rhodes, Justin Hammer or Whiplash asked “ Big man in a suit of armor. Under that what are you?” and Tony Stark just replied “ Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.” , we would be quick to dismiss their question. This is because each of those characters, while contrasting Tony in different ways, is not as well-developed as him or given enough narrative weight to stand on his own, they are merely there to help tell his story. When this exchange occured in the Avengers, however, it became one of most memorable moments. Because the man asking was Steve Rogers, a character of equal narrative importance as Tony.

This is why so many people love good villains and rivals. Because they are sometimes the only people getting as much narrative pull as the hero. And yes, that is a dig at the Whiplash in Iron Man II not being well-written.

14. Make Sure Your Character Fits The Story

If Otello and Hamlet switched plays, neither would happen. Quick to action Ottelo would have Cluadius’ head on a pike before his father’s ghosts is done speaking. Always doubtful Hamlet would question Iago’s words enough to realize he is being played. Shakespeare choose to tell the story with each character because their flaws were what lead them to a tragic end in this specific situation.

Think carefully if your hero actually works for a story you’re trying to tell with them. Don’t bend over backwards to make it about a character you think will be more marketable for target audience. People can tell when you’re doing that and it always rings false to the whole story. And if you have to contrive reasons why you’re telling a story about your protagonist in the first place, the chances are that the story would benefit from cutting them out. Usually when that happens, there is someone in your supporting cast who fits the role of main character much better. For example, in the comic book version of the Boys Billy Butcher and Wee Hugie are incredibly boring choices for the protagonist, as each’s motivation to oppose evil corproation, and superheroes it makes, boils down to “they killed my woman”. Compare it with Mother’s Milk, whose entire life has been ruined by the same corporation and who lost his entire family due to that corporation’s actions, and he makes much more compelling character.

15. Not Every Trope Fits Every Story

Let us take previous point a step further. Each genre has its own conventions that you need to respect to a degree at least. There are storytelling tools that may work in one type of story but not in another. Casually killing characters for shock value may work wonders in a gripping, dark fantasy war story like Glen Cook’s Soldiers Live. But comic books like Ultimatum or Avengers Arena have shown that it does not translate well into a shared universe of uplifting superhero narratives. Readers of Cook come in with an unspoken understanding that he is writing a brutal world, where death is quick and merciless and does not care who you are. His heroes are, at the end of the day, just humans. Slaughtering superheroes right and left just makes the reader ask what exactly is different now from all those times when they saved the day with a smile. Why are they sudenly dying when other heroes are fine? Why is this edgy bad guy with tech able to kill someone who survived one-on-one with an actual god? And if you cannot provide a convincing answer, the audience will feel like you’re just flipping them a bird for liking characters you don’t care for.

16. Not Every Genre Fits Every Story

Taking the last two points even a step further, you need to make sure you are telling your story in a genre, or even a medium, best suited for it. Infamous creepypasta Sonic.exe can only work if you don’t think about what is happenning for more than five seconds. Othertwise you realize that the narrator is for some unexplained reason unable to tell fiction from reality and freaking over characters dying in a hacked copy of Sonic the Hedgehog game more than over death of his friend...and then playing anyway. A very common opinion, that I share, is that the story would be much better off if it ditched human narrator and presented itself as a dark fic, a genre always open for another “beloved character suddenly goes serial killer on the cast” story.

In more broader sense, there are things a specific medium does better from others. If your story relies on heavy introspection, discussions of complicated scientific concepts and thick worldbuilding, chances are it will work best as a novel, than a comic book. If you want to have a lot of martial art battles, any visual medium is likely going to convey it better than written prose. But even then, you need to know different forms of that medium to match your specifics. Western comics have length of 20 to 36 pages per issue, depending whenever its American or European standard. The audience excepts to get, in one such issue, roughly balanced mix of verious elements, which is why most action scenes are going to be swift, maybe only few pages. Meanwhile manga is used to hyperfocusing on a specific element of story at the time. It is also more decompressed, with longer chapters of 30+ pages on average. Meaning it fits more a drawn-out battle full of twists and turns over the course of multiple chapters. If your want to make an action-packed show or a film, live-action budget can much easier take in something closer to real life, with little to no powers, realying on choerography and actual martial arts. Meanwhile, in animation it is going to be as expensive to make two people fight one another regardless if they’re throwing around knives or laser beams. Of course if you overcomplicate on the powers, you can reach a point where it would be better off as a prose after all, which is why it is important to know what kind of story you want to tell in the first place.

17. Set Up Some Lines

Once in a while you come across a work that does something that is considered bad in this genre, medium or just this kind of story. And yet gets away with it, at least for you, if not for everyone. Maybe it does a particular trope you usually dislike but manages to pull it out just right to not bother you. Maybe they did something that made your most hated type of character at least bearable? These are worth studying as to how do they accomplish this, obviously. But it is also useful to note them as a line in the sand, so to speak. They clearly hit a sweet spot before the overdone thing becomes actually overdone. If you ever find yourself dealing with this kind of topic in your own writing, you can reffer to the line.

For example, let’s say that you’re wondering whenever to make a superpowered battle series a comic, animation or a prose. You may look at something like JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, a franchise that has been for decades getting away with having very complex abilities and characters explaining and/or analyzing them in great detail, despite it being something that should be avoided in a visual medium. You can set up a “JoJo Line” by asking yourself - would an average character of my story need more time/page space to explain their powers than an average one in JoJo?”. If answer is yes, you should probably make this a novel.

18. What You Do Not Show (Doesn’t) Matter

If you relegate certain action or things done by a specific character to happening “off-screen” and merely be something we see a result of, or are told about, you send a direct message this thing or character doesn’t matter. If you want to make sure readers consider a character competent at something, you need to show them being competent at it. Think of every time you have seen a scene where hero bursts to the room to save a woman from a villain, only to find her fine and the baddie tied up. How many of them actually established the woman in question as a badass in her own right? I bet you it were only those where we actually have seen her fight or outright overcome the villain, not the ones where it all happenned off-screen. Adventure Time brilliantly parodied how useless this type of scene is, by showing us how an incompetent villain manages to accidentially tie himself up, in front of a very confused girl, and heroes severly misread the situation.

What I’m trying to say here is that things you choose to not show matter....because they don’t matter. Your chocie what to ommit enforces an idea what the story is about and that the part you skipped is outside of that scope. It informs the focus of your narrative and the idea of what is relevant or irrelevant. So if you want a character to be part of main cast, be wary of pushing too much of their accomplishments or arc to happen off-screen. In case of accomplishments you can skip them if you already showed character good at the thing. If you have established the hero as badass by showing them beat a big, strong enemy, you can probably skip them fighting some losers as we know what outcome will be. You can then only show hero’s fights if there is an actual risk the character losing, to use what you were previously not showing to enchance the tension. But if you ever show the character losing and all their victories are from off-screen fights, it just shows they’re a fake who cannot win against a real opponnent, and their reputation as strong is as good as an informed ability. After all, if we never see them win, how do we know their “victories” aren’t just all from enemies slipping on a banana peel?

19. Overt Complexity is Self-Congralutatory

Resist the temptation to make the villain’s plan overtly complicated. The more steps the plan needs to accomplish, the harder it is to believe when it goes off without a hitch. It is very easy to reach a point when the plan no longer makes villain look like a master manipulator, but as if they have crystal ball and can see the future, as they account for events they had no way of knowing about  

Make sure to keep your villain’s goal in mind and that the plan is actually serving accomplishing the goal and not just showing how smart the villain is. I recommend studying a movie Usual Suspects for this and realizing how the villain’s plan ends up undermining the very goal it was conceived for, just because the writer wanted to make sure we see him as a mastermind.

As with everything, remember you can have too much of a good thing. Gargoyles’ David Xanatos showed us that villains who can accomplish secondary objectives can look smart even if their main goal is thwarted. But the same writers’ Young Justice has took it to a such extreme it became a joke and sucked all tension from the story - why bother caring if we know the bad guys from the Light will win? Because they always win, even if they lose, they still win.

20. It’s Okay To Figure it Out As You Go

I bet this all feels very intimidating. So let’s me make one thing clear as my closing words. You do not need to have fully fleshed out characters before you begin plotting your story. It’s okay to not have the plot all figured out before you choose the theme of your story. Hell, it’s okay to just start writing scenes with your OC and figure plot and theme as you go. It’s okay to go without a plan or unprepared, stumble and make a note of the issue. At some point you will need to make revisions anyway, first draft is always supposed to suck. Once you finish it, you can start ironing everything out so that it fits neatly together.

Anyway, Happy Birthday to me

-Admin

#writing #writing advice

[catboyclarity]

berk..... and uuuuh? pmmm for the ask game

ITS BERK TIME BABYYYY

Fav male character:

Guts and Griffith about equally but Guts means more to me emotionally bc well. He’s just like me fr (abuse victim).

Fav female character:

I would lay down my life for Casca I think.

Least fav:

I wish Wyald from the manga. Was not.

Prettiest character:

I want to put Griffith in my mouth where he will dissolve like a meltaway mint.

Funniest character:

Corkus!! I know lots of folks don’t like him but he’s funny when he’s comic relief while also being a complex and tragic character. I like him.

Also Puck is a funny little guy and I love when he’s a little blob thing next to a super detailed drawing of Guts.

Favorite season (arc):

I will need to finish reading the whole manga before I can answer this. However. The golden age arc has Casca.

Favorite episode:

Episode 24 of the ‘97 anime. The moment where Griffith sees Guts and makes the decision to sacrifice is like…maybe my favorite moment in the series? I could write an essay on it.

Also Wounds from the manga means a lot 2 me.

Favorite romantic ship:

Casguts in the “they invented love and it’s one of the best developed relationships I’ve seen I just want these two traumatized people to find comfort and strength in each other let them be happy please god” and griffguts in the “this is so horrific and toxic and complex and there’s so much present classical homoerotic subtext here I need to dissect it in a lab and write a 20 page paper with citations about it” way.

Fav family relationship:

Band of the Hawk. The whole thing.

Fav friendship:

Judeau’s friendship with Casca and with Guts idk I like it. I like Judeau very much.

Least favorite ship:

I do not know what ppl in this fandom are shipping and I do not care.

PUELLA MAGI MADOKA MAGICA

this show made me gay when I was 14. There are a lot of valid critiques of it but it’s not for you it was for me when I was 14 and trying to figure out if liked girls.

Fav male character:

Lol there are no important men. Kyubey gets called “he” in most translations but kyubey is not a boy. Begone.

Fav female character:

Sayaka i love her more than anything. She is the first fictional character I ever related to which should have let me know I needed mega therapy and also to transition but that took me a while. She is so tragic and her arc devastates me every time.

Least fav character:

I’m going to throw Kyubey off a bridge.

Prettiest character:

I’ve been answering this in the sexual lust sense but I just mean it in the aesthetic sense bc all of the characters. Are. 14. Homura has a very nice design.

Funniest character:

There’s not a lot of comedy!! Kyoko I guess?

Fav season:

It is 12 episodes.

Fav episode:

Episode 9. It makes me cry like a little baby every single time I watch the series.

Fav romantic ship:

Kyosaya is the fucking blueprint for me man. In the owl house answer I did with this ask game I mentioned the kinds of ships that were important to me when I was a baby gay? I meant Kyosaya basically. It has everything. Rivals with attempted friendship. Red/blue. Opposites. Tragedy. It is. The blueprint.

Fav family relationship:

I know the spirit of this is found family but Madoka and her mom really get me man!!!

Fav friendship:

Madoka and Sayaka. They clearly care about each other a lot and it is SO SAD.

Least fav ship:

See my berk answer.

#asks

[jennycalendar]

ok you know what i think it’s actually really vital that i talk a little bit about tea time. buckle up kiddos.

first off, a brief and relatively spoiler-free summary: the premise of the issue is very simple. the kiddos (aged up, if willow’s mention of being engaged is any indication) are hanging out in the library to help giles with research, swapping stories about what it would be like were giles a vampire. each of them, save giles, gets a chance to tell a detailed story -- xander tells two! -- and each story plays out in a way that says a lot about the scooby that’s telling it AND the way they view giles.

obviously this is a VERY character-driven issue, and it’s a really really interesting look at giles and how he is perceived as well! shit like that is my bread and butter, so this has honestly become one of my favorite things that boom has put out -- possibly my ACTUAL top favorite issue if we’re being real here. 

below the cut is a spoilery dissection of every story told -- a literal summary of Every Single Thing that happens in this issue, as well as what it has to say about the scoobies and their perception of giles, so definitely keep that in mind.

as can be seen in the preview, xander’s first story is about giles rising from the grave as an ineffectual british caricature, who is easily defeated by smoldering, sexy xander harris (and xander in turn walks off with buffy and willow draped all over him, cooing about how amazing he is). it’s more of an intro to the premise than anything, but it still sets the tone pretty clearly wrt how xander handles this situation: there’s some laughter and levity, and he’s center stage. obviously a lot can be said about xander’s self-esteem issues and how he overcompensates by casting himself as the main protagonist both in canon and here. however, i wanna save my more in-depth xander analysis for his second, longer, story, so i’ll stop myself there.

willow immediately responds with skepticism: she’s of the mind that giles would be an incredibly serious big-bad level threat. the tale she spins involves giles as a dangerous vampire cleric with access to a cryptic altar, killing xander almost immediately and slaughtering buffy as a sacrifice to create eternal night. her view of giles is more clinical than anything -- and, i would argue, the most perceptive and realistic from a threat standpoint. the guy knows a fuckton of magic and he is incredibly well-read and powerful. he’d have some kind of terrifying master plan. where xander goes for comedy, willow goes straight for logistics, already looking at the battle like it’s a battle rather than laughs aplenty. 

xander and buffy have a bone to pick with willow’s story (xander is indignant that he’s immediately and brutally killed, buffy is of the mind that she would easily defeat giles in hand-to-hand combat even if he IS a vampire), so (after one more teasing story where buffy lives and xander dies) willow gracefully alters her narrative to reflect her friends’ objections: after a dramatic tussle, xander helps willow and buffy unceremoniously stakes giles in the heart. still pretty straightforward and plausible. willow sees vamp giles primarily as a threat -- one not easily neutralized. one who could easily wipe them out.

buffy, about to tell her story, is interrupted by xander, who “had an even better idea!” the web he weaves is this time purported as realistic and entertaining: while partying at the bronze, buffy and co. are interrupted by a bunch of balding, greying vampires in curlers and bathrobes, led, of course, by giles -- who is wearing a hair bonnet and disapprovingly informing the bouncers how late it is at eight PM. a knockdown brawl breaks out at the bronze -- old people feeding on and decimating the young -- and culminates in giles and the geezers taking over the band to sing “some terrible song” that’s “probably something really old and bad!” the rest of the story descends into b-movie chaos, with buffy throwing a broken guitar neck up at the stage lights to send the whole thing crashing down onto vampire giles and his vampire old person band. it’s categorically absurd.

the thing that really sticks with me about this story is how dumb it is. xander’s take on giles is not even slightly serious and wholly underestimates him. fandom at large talks a lot about how giles dropped the ball with xander, but i think tea time explores an easily overlooked factor: xander constantly, consistently underestimates giles. in canon, xander’s view of giles is not often challenged: to him, giles is a bumbling, british librarian who regularly gets his ass handed to him by vamps and demons and the like. certainly part of his story’s intent is about laughingly entertaining his gal pals, but there’s a very real and consistent thread involving giles being hilariously nonthreatening. 

giles, taking umbrage at this particular tale, calls out both xander and willow: xander’s story, in giles’s opinion, emasculates vamp giles and turns him into a ridiculous caricature -- and willow’s story, though much more flattering, lacks the kind of imagination that vamp giles would clearly have. he then offers a suggestion of his own. it’s worth mentioning here that both xander’s and willow’s stories get gorgeous multiple-page spreads depicting the vampy action, but giles’s is a simple and chilling little thing: this is his vampire story. this meeting, called to ostensibly “research” a vampire altar, is really an excuse to get the scoobies to do his dirty work and find the thing for him. they’re tired and silly because the tea and donuts he’s given them are drugged, and their library location is to keep them out of daylight. he laughs it off when he sees they’re bothered, and the meeting is then adjourned when willow finally finds what they’re all looking for. 

buffy’s left her phone in the library, so she doubles back, and accidentally wakes up a dozing giles. just as she’s about to leave, he inquires, casually, “...you never did tell your version of the story.”

and good god here is where it gets interesting.

see, buffy’s take is simple: she’s fighting giles in a cemetery, she’s given the chance to kill him, and she is entirely unable to do it. they share a tearful embrace as she sobs about the unfairness of it all -- “you’re giles! and you’ll always be! ...how will i do this without you? without your guidance?” and as the sun is rising, giles turns her into a vampire, with no resistance whatsoever from buffy. the next handful of pages depict bloody, indulgent violence on the parts of giles and buffy, the two of them cuddled up together as they watch the world burn. 

buffy’s tale is the most emotive, the most loving, which makes me so damn soft! i love this girl so much! she is unable to even joke about giles as a foe to be taken down -- he is her watcher. he is her friend. she loves him endlessly and that does not change when he’s a vampire. vamp giles as she portrays him is gentle and understanding, holding her as she cries, because he knows that they’re connected. it’s easily my favorite part of this whole issue.

notably, there is a definite buffy/giles bend that the comic itself tries to contradict. the art is sensual in nature -- vamp buffy all dolled up in a way somewhat evocative of drusilla, giles tenderly caressing her face as he waits for her to wake up. “watcher and slayer connected forever” being the quote chosen to describe the situation. i think it’s kind of what naturally happens in a vamp giles sitch, especially if he turns buffy -- the childe/sire bond is incredibly sexual in nature, especially in canon, and a lot of frustrating human sentiment gets translated into something sexual as well. sex is a big BIG part of the relationships between vampires we see in canon; it would make a lot of sense for that to hold true for buffy and giles.

the comic is reticent about Going There, which i can understand -- though buffy is decisively aged up in this issue (willow mentions being engaged to a woman, later revealed to be tara), the buffy/giles bond is always seen through a father/daughter lens in canon. i do think it’s also important to always recognize how desperately giles wishes to escape the label of father in reference to buffy, pretty much entirely because there is no way to parent a child soldier who you’re also training, but that’s a whole other kettle of fish. point is, buffy very pointedly refers to vamp giles as her father not once, but twice -- once as a human, once as a vampire herself. it’s a very clear attempt, imo, to un-sexualize the vampy experience. the reason it doesn’t totally work, at least for me, is the fact that -- like i said -- the childe/sire bond is VERY sexual (spike and dru, angel and darla, angel and dru) and it seems just totally implausible that vamp buffy/vamp giles (two people who, as human were both VERY repressed) would chastely remain within the socially acceptable version of their relationship.

i can definitely understand why they did their best to blur that line, though. the idea of buffy and giles being romantically involved as vampires is 1) Kind Of A Lot and 2) not exactly the target demographic that i think this comic is going for. but the subtext is there, to the point where the issue itself has to actively obfuscate it, which i think is .... so interesting? especially as a counterpoint to the way i often see buffy/giles in fandom, wherein the father/daughter subtext in canon is at times actively obfuscated in fic in an attempt to push a preferred reading. 

the ending i particularly enjoyed: after buffy leaves, it is lightly and ambiguously implied that giles might really be a vampire. works GREAT as a standalone, imo, and the end is like the cherry on top. it’s a really REALLY interesting issue and i highly recommend it for any giles fan. 

#meta #btvs comics #buffy and giles #''a little bit'' they say. and write a full fucking essay #anyway i love this issue it's my prized possession i am dying for at least one (1) person to read this insane summary and talk to me abt it

[idealuk]

*Bangs pots*

Preface: I’ve been basically just sitting on these thoughts/observations for months now out of the need to not be misinterpreted as an apologist for racist behaviour, but a recent conversation with one of this fandom’s greatest fan fiction writers compelled me to divorce character from actor, and produce this torrential meta.

Disclaimer: I would say that no one asked for this post, but @matan4il actually literally did, so [most of what follows is essentially what the two of us recently volleyed back and forth between each other about why we think that, given what we’ve actually seen so far, it’s not at all foolish to ship Buck with Eddie, the character, critical thoughts on the actor who plays him and discussions on the depths of how badly his recent choices have already tainted the potential between these two characters are for other posts on a variety of blogs, including mine, just check his name’s tag on my blog (here is @matan4il​​’s Buddie meta tag and here is mine for any one who’s interested in figuring out how we both got to this stage of madness/dissecting the machinations of what the show is doing with these two)] ...

Do you know what we don't talk about enough? The fact that Eddie legitimately made Buck think about their dicks together in the middle of his first episode and immediately after that Buck flips to voluntarily attaching himself to Eddie's hip and that seemed to please Eddie.

That happened!

But, wait, there’s more (a lot more) ...

A few minutes later about removing a grenade from a guy’s leg:

(Every one knows why I also included this reaction shot)

The rest of their first episode together:

(Never mind the fact that this has been their one single on-screen handshake because they would subsequently upgrade to ‘playful jostles, encouraging nudges, conciliatory grasps, supportive hand holding, and increasingly intimate hugs’ and nothing less than that)

All of that happened as described!

We, as fans, often focus so much on how we would not have imagined how close Buck and Eddie would become based on the first half of that first episode together, but, after taking stock of the second half of that first episode with Eddie, how could we not think that the possibilities are limitless, and what was the line that flipped the script? ... I’m definitely not necessarily saying that Buck went from wanting to show Eddie that he was better than him to wanting to prove that he was good enough for him the moment that Eddie personally got him to think of him sexually (with the added bonus of the mental image evoked involving both of them as equally sexualized), or that Eddie did so because a part of him wanted to see if he could get the attractive guy at his new job to see them in that way together instead of continuing to be closed off and dismissive towards him (and need I extrapolate the queer innuendo of ‘having each other’s backs’ or how the expressions on their faces as they shared that exchange arguably confirms that they did, in fact, picture each other’s dicks together in the back of that ambulance), but this is what they walk like, let alone look at each other like, when they’re steadily on the same page in regards to sex/relationships:

I am, however, unequivocally saying that Hen has had a bet on the inevitability of their relationship ending up being not just business casual or merely just “best buds” ...

They built it and they wonder why we delve in it? We’re pretty sure they know why we delve in it! Elf lady showing up as early as Episode 2x10 proves to me they know exactly what they're doing (we’ve all seen enough GIFs of this, and that of the following additional points that we made during our latest tête-à-tête of finger-pointing at our respective screens, that I’m not going to put them in a an other post that might not show up in the tags). The grocery store fight has no platonic explanation. None. Eddie being so lost without Buck right in front of every one else on their crew. Don’t get me started on their reactions (you know the GIFs are out there to see if you go looking for them). The kitchen scene is a lesson in flirting (irrefutable proof via @ghostlyreggie). Jealous!Eddie is a repetitious thing. So is both heart-eyes!Buck and heart-eyes!Eddie. As is the way Eddie some times raises his eyebrows as if he’s attempting to make them have the ability to physically scream ‘I am in love with a starved-for-common-sense, though trivia wise (and I'll be the first to tell you so), idiot!’. As well as Maddie’s intuitive eye rolls. #BobbyKnows needs no explaining. We would all like an explanation for the on-screen comments from Becca Dupre’s Instagram live video in 2x18. And Eddie checked out Buck's ass on screen in a one second, 24-frame, shot that could have been easily cut as it had no dialogue during it and Ken acted as Chim would have instead of how he would have out of character, and all three actors look so pleased with themselves in that shot, too. Buck looks like he knows that his ass is being checked out and is so happy about it.

(I couldn't not post these again)

Why is he bouncing his legs like that? Is he trying to make it jiggle? I mean ... how else would one explain what he's doing there?! Albeit, subtly, but still. In fact, it being subtle points to it being coordinated and at least the editors being pro-Buddie, because, if it was over the top, it definitely would've been cut (more proof that the powers that be are likely on our side), and we do have a director on record agreeing with "lovers cinematography" for Episode 3x06 (Tina’s a queen), so we're just talking facts. It's not even hypothesis at this point. It’s a closed case. Buddie has been romantically, and sexually, coded from the very start. I mean ...

#FirstSight

An other thing, I’ve tried to sing the praises of the subtextual body language of what seems to be said in the two GIFs below before, but it bears repeating and deserves to be given visual “evidence” of:

Note: These are the only two GIFs in this post with my tomfoolery for captions. All of the others with captions have the actual caption or what is plain to see or the lyrical actual audio.

(This post does not mean to upset/downplay/disrespect aces of any kind or those whom head!canon either character as such. It's merely to express our, @matan4il​​’s and myself, interpretation of how certain members of the creative team for the show have chosen to depict this relationship. You do you and continue to be proud and unabashed. Head!canons are often far superior to firmly established canon.)

I forgot to really even mention that they’ve already been raising an adorable child together for a couple of years now in this post.

Whoops.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Buddie shippers aren’t reaching. We’re sitting back and pointing!

#9-1-1 #buddiepher #buddie #edmundo 'eddie' diaz #eddie diaz #evan 'buck' buckley #evan buckley #ryan guzman #buddie meta #maddie buckley #bobby nash #becca dupre #kenneth choi #howie 'chimney' han #chimney han #howie han #henrietta 'hen' wilson #henrietta wilson #tina mabry #christopher diaz #carla price #eddie x buck #eddiexbuck #eddiebuck #buck x eddie #buckxeddie #buckeddie #gif

[mediocre--writing]

Hello again from the anon who sent the first ask about childhood friends Billy crushing on Steve and venting to his mother. You wrote it amazingly, by the way. I would love to see Steve chasing after Billy in the next part, rather than the other way around. Maybe he doesn’t understand why Billy’s been distant and he misses him. I’m not sure if the timeline is accurate but it could be around the time Steve suspects her of having something with Jonathan so he feels very alone and sad and misses his best friend and Billy wants to cry all over again.

part 1 2

billy wakes up the next morning with the weight of his worries pressing into his chest. in comparison, the weight of his secret has been carefully lifted off his shoulders by his mother and was being kept and cradled with the upmost care.

he was left with a list of chores sitting on the dining table and another note reminding him to pick up his extra work from the school.

before even looking a the list of chores, billy did the bare minimum to make himself look ready enough for the day and made his way to the school.

getting his assignments for his last four periods was easy, they were sitting with the receptionist in a little red folder, but his first period, mrs. kelman, hadn’t given hers in yet.

the secretary, being the lazy ass she is, just waved billy through to go to her room and grab the assignments.

her room, of course, was one of the farthest points from the front entrance of the school, so billy power walked most of the way there, wanting to get out of there before he saw someone—a specific someone—and they started asking questions.

knocking on the door once he’d reached it, mrs. kelman came to answer it, muttering something about him being a heathen and a pain in her ass, but billy didn’t care.

because how could he be so dumb? really, you’re friends with a guy your entire life and forget you share the same first period? and you couldn’t wait another thirty minutes to get your assignments?

god, billy wants to shove his finger in the pencil sharpener.

“you’ve got a book?”

billy is staring out the windows of the back of the classroom when he hears mrs. kelman clear her throat, “do you have your book at home?”

with a small cough, billy assures her his copy of the book is at his house. she proceeds to explain the worksheets in detail while handing him, not one, not two, not three, but four packets of work pages he needs to complete ‘by tuesday, if not, i don’t care what you did do, it’s all a zero.’ psycho bitch.

billy, red folder and packets in hand, practically struts out of the classroom before she can come up with any more work to give him.

he’s not yet half way down the hallway when he hears shoes squeaking behind him, his name being called in a voice he really wants to ignore.

“billy, dude, you didn’t answer my calls last night,”

“went to bed early,” billy responded, not caring to turn around or stop walking. nevertheless, steve caught up to him, rushing to block billy’s path.

“well then, talk to me now, what happened yesterday? you haven’t been the same recently, i’m worried,” steve practically begs billy as they finally stop in the hallway.

“i have chores and about fifty pages of work i need to get started on, steve, so if you don’t mind...” billy stepped to walk away but steve grabbed his elbow.

billy’s packets and papers went down to the floor. “ok, i’m sorry about that, but why won’t you talk to me? and what’s with full naming me? you never call me ‘steve!’”

billy bent down to grab at the papers and shove them into his red folder, cradling them in his arms, “well, steve, sometimes people change and you may never know why. maybe they don’t fit in your life the way you thought they did, maybe you finally see the things the way you probably should have seen them all along,” billy scoffed, “have fun at the party tonight, steve,”

as billy walked off, steve felt sick to his stomach. billy was sarcastic and dry most of the time, but never to steve. with steve, there was never the underlying tone of annoyance there was at school and billy never rushed to get away from anyone, at least not this desperately.

steve was off for the rest of the day. it was hard not to notice the constant fidgeting and how he’d stare off into space in gym, the only class he really liked or actively participated in.

by the end of the day, his fifth period (a class he shared with nancy) steve was completely shut down.

wasn’t listening to the teacher or responding to either nancy or tommy’s attempts at getting his attention. he was just thinking about billy. about what he said. how he said it.

that emphasis on how people ‘don’t fit in your life’ and how angry billy was while saying it. how honest the words sounded coming out of his mouth, like he spoke with his entire chest and wanted steve to hear every single word for what it was.

but steve was never good at dissecting literature and hidden meanings, all he knew was what’s at face value.

and billy’s speech at face value was just a message that billy no longer wanted steve in his life. that he had moved on to bigger, better things.

but this, this felt like something his english teacher would scold him for not seeing the depth to.

and steve worried. worried his way through the rest of the day and into the next. worried all through the friday night party and the weekend. worried the monday billy was still suspended.

worried the entire week while billy was back. while billy still wasn’t talking to him or acknowledging him or even fucking looking at him.

steve had thrown himself into nancy that week, been driving her to school and home every day and had taken her on a date twice on school nights.

both times, without realizing, they’d ended up at the diner billy’s mom worked, the one billy would bus tables for in his free time to make a little extra money.

the first day, a tuesday, they’d been served by the diner lady herself, and steve had chatted like they were old friends.

neither mentioned billy, who was clearly seen in the window to the kitchen cleaning dishes.

the second day, a thursday, steve and nancy had come after the movies to get milkshakes. steve got vanilla and nancy got strawberry.

they didn’t see either billy nor his mom that day.

billy was working, though, steve knew because his unmistakable car was parked in its usual spot to the left corner of the building.

steve searched his entire brain, something he’d never done before, to figure out what billy meant.

he wanted to ask someone who knew more about literature than any teacher he’d ever had, but billy was the person he couldn’t ask for help this time.

steve never realized how much he depended on billy for everything. and he means everything.

date ideas for nancy. billy had the best spots.

how to keep nancy smiling. billy had the best pickup lines and corny jokes to make people smile.

keeping steve from not failing his classes. billy was the only person capable of getting through steve’s thick skull.

girl problems and regular teenage angst. billy always knew what people were feeling and how to react.

steve was so dependent on billy and he was absolutely crumbling without him there.

and nancy was frustrated. steve kept spacing out and ignoring her during dates. he wasn’t as charming as before and he was clingier than usual.

‘an absolute nuisance and is acting so desperate’ were her exact words.

this is what she told jonathan byers one night while they sat with their brothers and their friends at the diner after a long afternoon at the arcade.

this is what billy heard while busing tables behind them, unnoticed, before he opened his big mouth.

“done with that?” billy asked with a sickly sweet smile while pointing down at nancy’s empty milkshake glass.

as she made eye contact, her face burned bright red while she tried to control her facial features, “refill?” was the only thing she could squeak out.

billy kept the smile plastered on his face, “‘course!”

he made sure to spit in her stupid strawberry milkshake before he brought it to her.

“do that again and you won’t be working here anymore, boy,” the owner of the diner—benny—whispered to billy while holding onto his upper arm as he walked away from their table.

“yes, sir,” billy said, fake apologetically, because he grinned while walking back to the kitchen.

damn all the money in the world, nancy wheeler was a bitch and deserved her spit-shake.

billy had come to peace with the fact that steve was straight and in love with nancy.

really, steve couldn’t control who he liked.

ok so he was bitter as hell, but it didn’t stop him from being a decent person.

steve, on the other hand, was in the midst of a gay panic—not that he knew what that was. all steve knew was that he missed his billy—

wait when did ‘billy’ become ‘steve’s billy?’

and since when did steve think about billy more than he thought about his girlfriend? especially while he was alone in his house, laying on his bed.

he should be thinking about his girlfriend. his pretty, sweet, incredibly smart, charming, beautiful, blue-eyed—wait! not billy! think about your girlfriend, dumbass, not your best friend!

steve didn’t sleep that night. he stayed up thinking about billy.

about how it had been almost two weeks since he last hung out with billy and over a month since they’d last talked, like actually had a conversation. about how he didn’t even know what his girlfriend was doing this week, even though he knew she told him.

about how he needs to talk to billy.

he needs to figure out why he’s obsolete in billy’s life now. about why they drifted so quick it’s like something shoved a knife between their friendship.

and so, on that sunday morning, while most of hawkins would be out for church, steve drove over to billy’s house, knocking on the door of people who didn’t wake until noon most sundays.

“oh my god,” steve groaned to himself, knocking harder, “open your fucking door, people,”

the door swung open so fast it scared steve a little, almost knocking on a person—billy’s mom.

“hi,” steve gave an innocent smile, though he was met with a grumpy glare.

“why?” she asked desperately, “you know not to come before 12, 10 if it’s an emergency. it’s sunday, the day of rest, and here i am, not resting,”

“i need to talk to billy,”

“yeah,” she nodded, “see, he’s aware that it’s the day of rest, so he’s still sleeping,”

“i don’t care,” steve was stubborn.

she shrugged, “he punches you it’s not my problem. i’ll be resting so scream really loud if he kills you, the neighbors should hear and they’ll call someone for ‘ya,”

she winked at steve as she made her way back to her room, hoping to god that they’d either make up or make out, and she knew she probably wasn’t sleeping anytime soon. these were her boys she was thinking about, after all.

steve walked quick to billy’s door, turning the knob and moving to billy’s bed, sitting on the edge with his hands in his lap.

“i know you heard me knocking,”

“shhh...”

“billy,” steve groaned as he shifted to look at billy ‘sleeping.’

“he’s asleep. call again later,”

“you are your mother’s child,” steve snapped jokingly.

“well then she’s a smart lady. go away, steve,” billy pulled his pillow over his head.

“no,”

“—mmk,”

“talk to me, billy!”

“no,”

“why not?”

“he’s sleeping,”

“jesus christ!” steve stood up, pulling the pillow off of billy’s head and hitting him with it repeatedly. “get up and talk to me you brat!”

billy sat up after the second hit, but steve just kept going.

“what is wrong with you!?” billy put his hands over his head, pushing the covers off himself.

“me? what’s wrong with me!?” steve dropped the pillow to his side as he made crazy eyes at billy, “you’ve been ignoring me for the past, like, month!”

“no i have not!” billy pointed his finger at steve as a teacher would a student. “you have been the one attached at the fuckin hip with wheeler, so don’t you say that i’m the issue here!”

“i talked to you all the time!”

“about her!” billy stood so he could look steve in the eyes properly. “i don’t give a shit about her, steve! i really, really do not care about her in any way besides whatever concerns you! so i’m so sorry that i’m not very attentive on your hour long rants about how ‘nice and soft her hair is,’”

“don’t mock me!” steve exclaimed, insulted by billy’s bad impression of him.

“she’s a bitch!” billy yelled.

“don’t call her a bitch!”

“ok.” billy shrugged, “she’s a prissy bitch,”

“go fuck yourself,” steve complained, throwing his head back in annoyance.

“no!” billy yelled, taking a step foreward. “she talks about you behind your back. to byers. says you’re desperate and a nuisance. is that the same girl you’re so in love with, steve? huh!?”

steve’s face fell a little at the accusation and his eyes darted around billy’s room.

“liar,”

“when have i ever lied to you?”

steve was quiet.

billy, in a softer voice, “i’m not lying. i just don’t want you to be all in love and her not feel the same way, you’re not good together,”

steve had shuffled around to sit at billy’s desk. “wow thanks,”

“i’m serious,” billy’s face was kinder, not as harsh, “she’s already all grown up, and you’re not. it’s a good thing, steve. you’re happy and carefree and want to... go skydiving and she just wants to... play mahjong at the retirement home,”

steve cracked a smile but it fell just as quick, “she really said all that?”

“i spit in her milkshake and she drank the whole thing,” billy admitted, leaning against the desk next to steve’s legs.

steve smiled, “‘course you did,”

they sat quietly for a minute, taking in billy’s words and the consequences of them.

“i’ve been really worried about you,” steve admitted. “you ignored me for a week then got into a big fight, which you haven’t done since that one boy made fun of me freshman year, and then you didn’t even act like i was around. thought you hated me after what happened in the hall,”

“don’t hate you,” billy leaned closer to steve, knocking their shoulders together, “could never hate you. just... frustrated, i guess?”

“cause of nancy?”

billy shrugged, “yea—“

steve turned to look at him better, “something else, though,” he stared at billy for quite some time, “your dad didn’t call—“

“no!” billy shut down the idea, “no, it’s not him. he’s lone gone now,”

“then what?”

“it’s no—“

“it’s something,” steve insisted.

for as awful as steve was on his own, all alone with nancy or in school, for as bad as he was at reading people, billy was an open book to him. he knew every tell he had and could almost read his mind.

“no,”

“yes,” steve was stern.

“no, steve,”

“talk to me,” steve almost begged.

“no,”

“why do i love you?” steve whispered quietly to himself, making billy’s head shoot up before he remembered that he and steve had been saying ‘i love you’ since two weeks after they met.

“steve, you don’t need to worry about—“

“you?” steve guessed. “i don’t need to worry about you? how is that right when all you do is worry about me?”

“i don’t—“

“you do!” steve had a fire in his heart now, “even when you’re upset with me you’re still a good friend. you still look out for me and spit in my awful girlfriends milkshake while she talks crap about me!

“i don’t get why you do it, billy, because i don’t return it and i didn’t even realize until now!”

“you don’t have to,”

“but i should!” steve was pacing in the middle of billy’s bedroom, “i am the worst to you and you just don’t do anything about it! i love you. i love you so much but i’m such an ass to you and i can’t even—“

“i love you too, steve, we’re there for each other. always have been—“

“no,” steve’s eyebrows went up and he steadied his shaking hands. as he realized it for the first time, steve spoke, “no, i love you, billy,”

billy was frozen.

didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t dare even blink.

it was a dream, it had to be.

“i love you and i want to care about you more than i do. i’m a shitty person as is, but, i want to be there for you like you always have for me,”

“i love you, too,”

“why are you crying?” steve’s eyes widened as he saw the tear tracks down billy’s face, rushing over to wipe them away.

“‘m happy. they’re happy tears,” billy sniffled as he looked up at steve, “promise,”

and they kissed.

steve didn’t even think about nancy. billy didn’t think about the shadow under his door that was most definitely his mom listening in.

they ignored the way it was a really bad kiss, especially for two boys with such reputations that they have, but enjoyed it nonetheless.

billy enjoyed the way steve’s hands pushed his messy curls away from his face and steve enjoyed billy’s hands rubbing his lower back.

they didn’t have to think beyond that moment, didn’t have to worry about a single thing.

their only plans past that moment were for steve to break it off with nancy, then they’d go get chocolate milkshakes and eat cherry pie at the diner.

#ok i made nancy the villain but it’s just because it was an easy target #lol this probably has so many spelling/grammar mistakes #stranger things #harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #billy x steve #steve x billy #billy’s mom #billy hargroves mom #billy stranger things #nancy wheeler

[silvokrent]

RWBY Character Analysis: Pietro and Penny Polendina

Up until now I’ve been keeping quiet about my opinions on the newest volume, in no small part because my personal life has been one absurd setback after another, and I haven’t had the energy to engage in fandom meta. If you do want to know what my current opinion of RWBY is, go over to @itsclydebitches blog, search through her #rwby-recaps tag, and read every single one. At this point, her metas are basically an itemized list of all my grievances with the show. I highly recommend you check ’em out.

Or, if you don’t feel like reading several hours’ worth of recaps, then go find a sheet of paper, give yourself a papercut, and then squeeze a lemon into it. That should give you an accurate impression of my feelings.

In truth, I have a lot to say about the show, particularly how I think CRWBY has mishandled the plot, characters, tone, and intended message of their series. And while I enjoy dissecting RWBY with what amounts to mad scientist levels of glee, I think plenty of other folks have already discussed V7′s and V8′s various issues in greater depth and with far more eloquence. Any contribution I could theoretically make at this point would be somewhat redundant.

That being said, I’d like to talk about something that’s been bothering me for a while, which (to my knowledge) no one else in the fandom has brought up. (And feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.)

Today’s topic of concern is Pietro Polendina, and his relationship with Penny.

And because I’m absolutely certain this post is going to be controversial and summon anonymous armchair critics to fill my inbox with sweary claptrap, I may as well just come out and say it:

Pietro Polendina, as he’s currently portrayed in the show, is an inherently abusive parental figure.

Let me take a second to clarify that I don’t think it was RWBY’s intention to portray Pietro that way. Much like other aspects of the show, a lot of nuance is often lost when discussing the difference between intention versus implementation, or telling versus showing. It’s what happens when a writer tries to characterize a person one way, but in execution portrays them in an entirely different light. Compounding this problem is what feels like a series of rather myopic writing decisions that started as early as Volume 2, concerning Penny’s sense of agency, and how the canon would bear out the implications of an autonomous being grappling with her identity. It’s infuriating that the show has spent seven seasons staunchly refusing to ask any sort of ethical questions surrounding her existence, only to then—with minimal setup—give us Pietro’s “heartfelt” emotional breakdown when he has to choose between “saving” Penny or “sacrificing” her for the greater good.

Yeah, no thanks.

If we want to talk about why this moment read as hollow and insincere, we need to first make sure everyone’s on the same page.

Spoilers for V8.E5 - “Amity.” Let’s not waste any time.

In light of the newest episode and its—shall we say—questionable implications, I figured now was the best time to bring it up while the thoughts were still fresh in my mind. (Because nothing generates momentum quite like frothing-at-the-mouth rage.)

The first time we’re told anything about Pietro, it comes from an exchange between Penny and Ruby. From V2.E2 - “A Minor Hiccup.”

Penny: I've never been to another kingdom before. My father asked me not to venture out too far, but... You have to understand, my father loves me very much. He just worries a lot.

Ruby: Believe me, I know the feeling. But why not let us know you were okay?

Penny: I…was asked not to talk to you. Or Weiss. Or Blake. Or Yang. Anybody, really.

Ruby: Was your dad that upset?

Penny: No, it wasn’t my father.

The scene immediately diverts our attention to a public unveiling of the AK-200. A hologram of James Ironwood is presenting this newest model of Atlesian Knight to a crowd of enthusiastic spectators, along with the Atlesian Paladin, a piloted mech. During the demonstration, James informs his audience that Atlas’ military created them with the intent of removing people from the battlefield and mitigating casualties (presumably against Grimm).

Penny is quickly spotted by several soldiers, and flees. Ruby follows, and in the process the two are nearly hit by a truck. Penny’s display of strength draws a crowd and prompts her to retreat into an alley, where Ruby learns that Penny isn’t “a real girl.”

This scene continues in the next episode, “Painting the Town…”

Penny: Most girls are born, but I was made. I’m the world’s first synthetic person capable of generating an Aura. [Averts her gaze.] I’m not real…

After Ruby assures her that no, you don’t have to be organic in order to have personhood, Penny proceeds to hug her with slightly more force than necessary.

Ruby: [Muffled noise of pain.] I can see why your father would want to protect such a delicate flower!

Penny: [Releases Ruby.] Oh, he’s very sweet! My father’s the one that built me! I’m sure you would love him.

Ruby: Wow. He built you all by himself?

Penny: Well, almost! He had some help from Mr. Ironwood.

Ruby: The general? Wait, is that why those soldiers were after you?

Penny: They like to protect me, too!

Ruby: They don't think you can protect yourself?

Penny: They're not sure if I'm ready yet. One day, it will be my job to save the world, but I still have a lot left to learn. That's why my father let me come to the Vytal Festival. I want to see what it's like in the rest of the world, and test myself in the Tournament.

Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of the approaching soldiers from earlier. Despite Ruby’s protests, Penny proceeds to yeet her into the nearby dumpster, all while reassuring her that it’s to keep Ruby out of trouble, not her. When the soldiers arrive, they ask her if she’s okay, then proceed to lightly scold her for causing a scene. Penny’s told that her father “isn’t going to be happy about this,” and is then politely asked (not ordered; asked) to let them escort her back.

Let’s take a second to break down these events.

When these two episodes first aired, the wording and visuals (“No, it wasn’t my father,” followed by the cutaway to James unveiling the automatons) implied that James was the one forbidding her from interacting with other people. It’s supposed to make you think that James is being restrictive and harsh, while Pietro is meant as a foil—the sweet, but cautious father figure. But here’s the thing: both of these depictions are inaccurate, and frankly, Penny’s the one at fault here. Penny blew her cover within minutes of interacting with Ruby—a scenario that Penny was responsible for because she was sneaking off without permission. Penny is a classified, top-secret military project, as made clear by the fact that she begs Ruby to not say anything to anyone. Penny is in full acknowledgement that her existence, if made public, could cause massive issues for her (something that she’s clearly experienced before, if her line, “You’re taking this extraordinarily well,” is anything to go by).

But here’s the thing—keeping Penny on a short leash wasn’t a unilateral decision made by James. That was Pietro’s choice as well. “My father asked me not to venture out too far,” “Your father isn’t going to be happy about this”—as much as this scene is desperately trying to put the onus on James for Penny’s truant behavior, Pietro canonically shares that blame. And Penny (to some extent) is in recognition of the fact that she did something wrong.

Back in Volumes 1 – 3, before the series butchered James’ characterization, these moments were meant as pretty clever examples of foreshadowing and subverting the controlling-military-general trope. This scene is meant to illustrate that yes, Penny is craving social interaction outside of military personnel as a consequence of being hidden, but that hiding her is also a necessity. It’s a complicated situation with no easy answer, but it’s also something of a necessary evil (as Penny’s close call with the truck and her disclosing that intel to Ruby are anything to go by).

Let’s skip ahead to Volume 7, shortly after Watts tampered with the drone footage and framed her for several deaths. In V7.E7 - “Worst Case Scenario,” a newscaster informs us that people in Atlas and Mantle want Penny to be deactivated, despite James’ insistence that the footage was doctored and Penny didn’t go on a killing spree. The public’s unfavorable opinion of Penny—a sentiment that Jacques of all people embodies when he brings it up in V7.E8—reinforces V2’s assessment of why keeping her secret was necessary. Not only is her existence controversial because Aura research is still taboo, but people are afraid that a mechanical person with military-grade hardware could be hacked and weaponized against them. (Something which Volume 8 actually validates when James has Watts take control of her in the most recent episode.)

But I digress.

We’re taken to Pietro’s lab, where Penny is hooked up to some sort of recharge/docking station. Ruby, Weiss, and Maria look on in concern while the machine is uploading the visual data from her systems. There’s one part of their conversation I want to focus on in particular:

Pietro: When the general first challenged us to find the next breakthrough in defense technology, most of my colleagues pursued more obvious choices. I was one of the few who believed in looking inward for inspiration.

Ruby: You wanted a protector with a soul.

Pietro: I did. And when General Ironwood saw her, he did too. Much to my surprise, the Penny Project was chosen over all the other proposals.

Allow me to break down their conversation so we can fully appreciate what he’s actually saying.

The Penny Project was picked as the candidate for the next breakthrough in defense technology.

Pietro wanted a protector with a SOUL.

In RWBY, Aura and souls are one of the defining characteristics of personhood. Personhood is central to Penny’s identity and internal conflict (particularly when we consider that she’s based on Pinocchio). That’s why Penny accepts Ruby’s reassurances that she’s a real person. That’s why she wants to have emotional connections with others.

What makes that revelation disturbing is when you realize that Pietro knowingly created a child soldier.

Look, there’s no getting around this. Pietro fully admits that he wanted to create a person—a human being—a fucking child—as a "defense technology” to throw at the Grimm (and by extension, Salem). Everything, from the language he uses, to the mere fact that he entered Penny in the Vytal Tournament as a proving ground where she could “test [her]self,” tells us that he either didn’t consider or didn’t care about the implications behind his proposal.

When you break it all down, this is what we end up with:

“Hey, I have an idea: Why don’t we make a person, cram as many weapons as we can fit into that person, and then inform her every day for the rest of her life that she was built for the sole purpose of fighting monsters, just so we don’t have to risk the lives of others. Let’s then take away anything remotely resembling autonomy, minimize her interactions with people, and basically indoctrinate her into thinking that this is something she wants for herself. Oh, and in case she starts to raise objections, remind her that I donated part of my soul to her. If we make her feel guilty about this generous sacrifice I made so she could have the privilege of existing, she won’t question our motives. Next, let’s give her a taste of freedom by having her fight in a gladiatorial blood sport so that we can prove our child soldier is an effective killer. And then, after she’s brutally murdered on international television, we can rebuild her and assign her to protecting an entire city that’s inherently prejudiced against her, all while I brood in my lab about how sad I am.”

Holy fuck. Watts might be a morally bankrupt asshole, but at least his proposal didn’t hinge on manufacturing state-of-the-art living weapons. They should have just gone with his idea.

(Which, hilariously enough, they did. Watts is the inventor of the Paladins—Paladins which, I’ll remind you, were invented so the army could remove people from the battlefield. You know, people. Kind of like what Penny is.)

Do you see why this entire scene might have pissed me off? Even if the show didn’t intend for any of this to be the case, when you think critically about the circumstances there’s no denying the tacit implications.

To reiterate, V8.E5 is the episode where Pietro says, and I quote:

“I don’t care about the big picture! I care about my daughter! I lost you before. Are you asking me to go through that again? No. I want the chance to watch you live your life.”

Oh, yeah? And what life is that? The one where she’s supposed to kill Grimm and literally nothing else? You do realize that she died specifically because you made her for the purpose of fighting, right?

No one, literally no one, was holding a gun to Pietro’s head and telling him that he had to build a living weapon. That was his idea. He chose to do that.

Remember when Cinder said, “I don’t serve anyone! And you wouldn’t either, if you weren’t built that way.” She…basically has a point. Penny has never been given the option to explore the world in a capacity where she wasn’t charged with defending it by her father. We know she doesn’t have many friends, courtesy of Ironwood dissuading her against it in V7. But I’m left with the troubling realization that the show (and the fandom), in their crusade to vilify James, are ignoring the fact that Pietro is also complicit in this behavior by virtue of being her creator. If we condemn the man that prevents Penny from having relationships, then what will we do to the man who forced her into that existence in the first place?

Being her “father” has given him a free pass to overlook the ethics of having a child who was created with a pre-planned purpose. How the hell did the show intend for Pietro to reconcile “I want you to live your life” with “I created you so you’d spend your life defending the world”? It viscerally reminds me of the sort of narcissistic parents who have kids because they want to pass on the family name, or continue their bloodline, or have live-in caregivers when they get older, only on a larger and much more horrific scale. And that’s fucked up.

Now, I’m not saying I’m against having a conflict like this in the show. In fact, I’d love to have a character who has to grapple with her own humanity while questioning the environment she grew up in. Penny is a character who is extremely fascinating because of all the potential she represents—a young woman who through a chance encounter befriends a group of strangers, and over time, is exposed to freedoms and friendships she was previously denied. Slowly, she begins to unlearn the mindset she was indoctrinated with, and starts to petition for agency and autonomy. Pietro is forced to confront the fact that what he did was traumatic and cruel, and that his love for her doesn’t erase the harm he unintentionally subjected her to, nor does it change the fact that he knowingly burdened a person with a responsibility she never consented to. There’s a wealth of character growth and narrative payoff buried here, but like most things in RWBY, it was either underdeveloped or not thought through all the way.

The wholesome father-daughter relationship the show wants Pietro and Penny to have is fundamentally contradicted by the nature of her existence, and the fact that no one (besides the villains) calls attention to it. I’d love for them to have that sort of dynamic, but the show had to do more to earn it. Instead, it’ll forever be another item on RWBY’s ever-growing list of disappointments—

Because Pietro’s remorse is more artificial than Penny could ever hope to be.

#rwby #rwby volume 8 #rwby spoilers #rwby thought dump #my posts #i speak #rwby meta #pietro polendina #penny polendina #james ironwood #arthur watts #ruby rose #rwby worldbuilding #rwde

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

I Taste Honey but I Haven’t Seen the Hive - Chapter Six

Ao3,   Masterpost,   C.1   C.2   C.3   C.4   C.5

Relationships: eventual queer-platonic intruality. platonic dukeceit, creativitwins, and dlampr.

Yet again there are no italics. its new years eve sue me. oh also happy 2021 nobody question my priorities thanks <3

Warnings: so much softness, implications of self-isolation, swearing, Lots of Feelings, sympathetic everybody, descriptions of the sides having non-human features.

Word Count: 3,962

Something Remus came to realize was that he, a bit paradoxically, was not used to people being in his space.

It was weird. Not weird in the way that people usually felt when he was the one interrupting- he wasn’t scared by it, or disgusted, or even really annoyed. It was just… surprising, to have somebody else hanging around him, unprompted by anything. 

Remus wasn’t known for having boundaries- or respecting them, for that matter- but he’d at least been attempting to restrain himself just a bit after being accepted by the others. Out of courtesy, if nothing else. 

And apparently he didn’t need to. Not after what happened with Patton, anyway. Now that Patton had deemed the two of them ‘close’- something he was absolutely happy to agree with, for the record- Remus’ world had flipped sort of around. Back to no boundaries, only he wasn’t the one crossing those lines, and nobody was running screaming. Least of all Patton!

Remus ran the thoughts over in his head, feeling like that day was shaping up to be a great example of the change:

He and Patton were sitting side-by-side in the living room, content, with the rest of the sides spread around in different seats and configurations just the same. The unlikely pair were at the fringe of the circle, close enough to be part of things but far enough to zone in and out at will (as both were prone to do). It was nice, amiable.

 But minutes before- forty of them at most- Remus had been up in his own room, happily dissecting some gooish creations and only vaguely aware that there was a meeting that day. His attendance to group meetings varied from week to week- sometimes he was bored and could use an argument, and other times he was having fun on his own and knew that it wouldn’t be all that important if he ditched. He joined more often than he used to, sometimes he was even asked for, but he was optional still. A favored option, suggestions taken now, sure- but still not mandatory. 

He was going to stay upstairs for that one, but Patton had come to get him. Had dragged him down in that sweet, puppy-dog way of convincing that worked so well and, knowing him, was totally unintentional. And even if Remus didn’t care about arguing his way through content production right then, Patton had promised that it was important for him to be there.

That was the word he’d used for Remus. Important.

How the hell could Remus say no to that?

At least the meeting was going by without a hitch, for once. He assumed it was- Remus was honestly paying very little attention- but the lack of anger or tension was practically palpable. These things were usually so spiteful that even Remus, renowned lover of chaos, could almost taste his headache when everybody started shouting and hissing and fighting. It just got sad.

But not that time, apparently.

As Logan went on his third ramble of the evening, smiling widely at a surprising lack of interruption, Remus turned to Patton. He whispered:

“Okay, when are they gonna snap? Did they all finally get lobotomized?”

Patton frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean where’s all the screaming and crying? Specs and Prince Priss haven’t had a single one of their horny yelling matches, what gives?”

Patton smiled in a way that said he was trying very hard not to laugh, rolling his eyes.

  “These meetings have calmed down a bit, I guess,” he shrugged.

Remus glanced around the room with narrowed eyes. While that certainly seemed like the truth, he couldn’t buy it. 

“Yeah, I give it until one of them vaguely insults the others,  and then everybody’s gonna shut down for the next week. That kinda tension doesn’t just go.”

Patton didn’t say anything. Half-gazing at the carpet, he didn’t look like he’d even heard. He was smiling, but it was one of those jumbled up expressions, the type that tried to span a hundred different feelings. He had so many expressions like that, that seemed bottomless and swirling and so intricate on a humanoid face that, in reality, wasn’t built to display something like that. It was uncanny- not like an eerie doll, but like something with unearthly beauty. This face, though, had tones of upset.

“It’s been a while since you’ve been around everybody,” Patton said.

It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be. While Remus wasn’t exactly known for keeping to himself, he couldn't be called sociable either. He dropped in to say something, usually random, and then he was gone as soon as he’d visited. Even before the first Patton incident, fuck, it had been weeks since he’d actually stuck around through something.

Since The Acceptance, now that Remus thought of it, he’d been spending more time alone than ever. Not all of  his time- he remembered being surprised at Logan talking to him, willingly, like friends, and after that had even come Virgil and Roman. He saw people, talked to them, yeah. The time spent was friendlier, more welcoming, but it was so much less. 

Well, it was obvious why: they visited him, but- like he’d mentioned, he’d been trying to give them some space.

“Sure, it's been awhile,” Remus admitted, “But I never expected shit to change so much around here, still.”

The haze on Patton’s face thickened like fog on the moors, a soft and sympathetic mist over his eyes that Remus knew was aimed at him (even if it was pointed more to a sort of middle distance). 

“I don’t think I did, either,” Patton’s mouth barely moved, his voice less of a whisper and moreso a fragile breath. “I was hoping for it, but… I’m still trying to get used to stuff being allowed to change, you know?” He picked at a loose thread along the seam of the couch. “I haven’t done this stuff in a while, either.” 

Remus’ head shot up, and he almost forgot that they weren’t the only two in the room. Somehow, he stopped himself from shouting:

“You- it has?”

A tiny smile. Something built up behind Patton’s eyes; a wave, dark and lonely and filling his bright blues with cloudy gray. “I just needed some alone time, after everything changed so much so fast. I still feel, I dunno, weird. I don’t know what’s wrong with me- but…” he swallowed, his head lifting. “I’m really happy for them,” he was staring- so very loving- first at Logan, then Roman, then Virgil and Janus. It was a wonder none of them felt his gaze on them, Remus thought, because he was sure if anyone looked at him that way, he’d burn up like a fae upon iron. “They deserve it so much. I know that not everything is perfect still, but, I’m just so proud of us anyways. I- I think maybe-”

He cut himself off, blinking rapidly. Remus gave the room a quick once over to make sure nobody was looking their way- and nobody was: Virgil was very resolutely trying to get everyone to stay on topic despite Janus and Logan’s continued tangenting, and Roman was scribing furiously on several different pieces of paper- before he inched close enough to curve his arm around Patton. Touching like that had steadily become familiar to both of them, and it didn’t take long for Patton to fall untense against his side. He leaned into him, muttering: “I mean, they’re all doing a lot better than me, that’s for sure. I- I don’t even know what I’m for anymore. Maybe that’s why I’ve been… ditching, really.”

Remus squeezed his shoulder. There were so many things he could’ve said and done, but all of them loud and fervent and definitely not subtle enough to go unnoticed by everyone. So, for the sake of Patton’s privacy, he settled on this:

“That makes two of us, Morey.”

 The meeting that was planned to take two or three hours took the entire day, just as always. Hours and hours were spent in a room filled with excited conversation, of which the subject oscillated wildly between relevant topics and complete nonsense- which Remus and Patton did, eventually, tune back into (and contribute to as well, mainly in the nonsense department). Eventually, even Virgil gave up on trying to keep anything in order. 

But the meeting ended on a good note anyway. Lots of good notes, actually, if the stacks upon stacks of paper they’d scribbled up were any indication. Mess, the sides had come to believe, was usually a measure of their productivity: if crumpled pages were strayed across the room, if forgotten pens and pencils balanced on every surface from coffee table to TV stand, and if- in the process of snacking- they’d accumulated enough dishes to fill the sink for days on end? Shit. Got. Done.

Remus stared over the chaos with unfocused eyes. He felt distantly proud of the stormish state the living room was in. Draped over the back of the sectional, he gnawed idly on a wood pencil, stripping its yellow into beige. The paint fell off in bitter chunks, and the taste made him think of grabbing some non-acrylic dinner before closing the night off. Maybe he’d steal some of whatever saccharine sweet Patton usually made in the late evenings, and then spend the rest of the night with him, anyway. Remus debated what would be the most fun (or if he was tired enough to sleep yet), partially aware as he did so that he’d chewed and swallowed the metal-eraser end of his pencil.

“Ugh,” a drawn out groan broke his thoughts, petulant and whiny. “Do you have any intention of helping us clean up this, the common area?” 

Roman was kneeling beside Janus on the carpet, the pair surrounded by papers and binders and trashbags, the former of which they were sorting into either of the latter two, depending on how useful each page was. Roman had stopped working, however, to stare up at Remus indignantly. Remus glared right back.

“I’ve never had an intention in my life,” he answered.

Janus shrugged, smiling in that I-told-you-so way at Roman. But Roman, ever the nuisance, wasn’t letting it go. 

“Come on! It’s not like you’re even doing anything!”

“I’m doing something,” Remus’ words were wide and wobbly as he stripped another line of paint off the pencil, breaking some splinters off into his teeth.

“Oh, really?”

“Yes,” another chunk of wood, down the hatch. “I’m flaying all these leftover pencils until they’re lead-sticks.”

Roman hopped up from the floor and dropped himself onto the couch, shoving himself into the way so jarringly that it reminded Remus of himself. 

“Well, now you’re going to help us clean.” 

Janus rolled his eyes, not even glancing up. “Roman, just leave it alone, we-”

“We are all parts of this whole now, including him! Remus-” Roman rounded on him again, “If you’re going to come down here and help us make all this mess, with all of your numerous contributions that we have to write down, you’ll help clean it like anybody else. Do you think that I like any of- of-” he gestured, flamboyantly, at the room, “This? Ugh, please, I’m a prince! But, fair is fair, and fair means everybody.” 

And that was the point of the conversation in which Remus would cackle, push Roman backwards off the couch, and proclaim how much it’d go against his very being to clean a mess instead of cause it. He’d tell Roman how funny it was that he thought he could boss him around, because it always had been- that full-of-it Older Brother kind of attitude that had never worked. The Prince had never once managed to get him to do anything, and each attempt only got funnier than the last. 

He didn’t say any of that, though. 

Roman was bitching at him, not to go away this time, but to stay. Stay and help the group, because he was a part of said group. So he was asked to help them, the group that he was a part of, because he was part of it. That group. 

“Okay,” he blurted, “Okay, I’ll- alright.”

Roman blinked at him, a look of disbelief spreading across his face. “You- oh!” he smiled, utterly baffled. “That was- very easy?”

Janus, too, was looking up at Remus with bewilderment, his task of paper-sorting all but forgotten. Remus couldn’t blame either of them, but he still huffed, trying very hard not to be embarrassed by that whole… moment.

He shook it off, rolling off the couch and standing up, jittery. 

“Whatever, just- tell me what to pick up, okay?” 

They seemed not to hear him, the gawking continuing on until he started working unprompted, and longer than that still. Each time he (begrudgingly) shoved something into a trashbag, it earned him another Exchange of Glances from the pair. 

They got over it eventually, though, because there was a fuck-load more to clean than there was room to stare. So they cleaned.

Remus thought it would get old after a minute, and he’d finally gather up the guts to bail on them, but it just… never happened. It felt unnatural to be getting rid of a mess- like an animal having its fur brushed the wrong way, continuously- but by some point the sensation was distant. The rest of him was still busy processing, experiencing, maybe possibly overthinking this kind of recognition he’d never gotten before. It was handed to him now like it was something normal. The three of them worked together, and it was normal. 

Acceptance, as it turned out, wasn’t synonymous with ‘soulless assimilation’. In fact, it was pretty fucking great, getting to watch his brother and best friend find documents from the floor with his ideas on them, then tucking them into a binder marked important, instead of a trashcan marked to burn. It was… surreal. 

But the tidying was over in just an hour and a half- oh wow, never in a million years would Remus have thought an hour and a half of cleaning would be too little for him. He made a note to absolutely destroy something big and important later, to balance the universe out again. 

Roman sank through the floor as soon as they were done, complaining loudly about how very exhausted he was. Remus teased him on his way out, but it was just for the habit- he was way too mushy to think of anything properly mean at the moment. 

Janus watched him go, silent. He sat beside Remus on the couch, and despite his obvious tiredness, he waited a good few minutes before saying anything. 

“Thank you,” he murmured. 

Remus shivered. Janus pulled him up into a hug (one that maybe dragged on for a little too long, but who was counting?), and it spelled out all the pride and care that he’d never been good at verbalizing. With that, he gave Remus a short nod, and then was gone as well. 

Which made everyone else upstairs, probably in their rooms and halfway asleep. Then there was Remus, antsy in the living room, itchy with feelings. 

Everyone but Patton, of course, who could still be heard humming in the kitchen; who never went up until he knew everyone else was in their rooms, true to the protective parent persona. Remus suddenly didn’t think he wanted anything else but to see Patton after what had happened, to talk to him, to… 

He walked to the kitchen.

“Pat.”

Patton looked over his shoulder at Remus, up to his elbow in sudsy sink water. A smile fell naturally across his face.

“Hi,” his voice was low, delicate. “You about to head up?”

Remus watched his friend work, trailing into the room slowly.  He grinned, “Are you kidding? I could stay up all night, if I wanted.”

“Do you want to?” Patton asked him.

Remus thought on it for a moment. He shrugged, iunno, leaned against the counter by the sink. Patton turned away again.

It was so quiet. No wind. No footsteps. Not a muffled voice upstairs, even- just the sound of water and ceramic hitting ceramic. Everything was still.

Remus hated it. Silence was fragile, and he crawled with the need to break it. He felt it get tense as it stretched out, and he just wanted to tear the air apart with sound. It felt like nothing mattered anymore, when peace was so easily able to drown it all out. Cold and alone. He hated it.

Sometimes, Remus imagined that if the silence went too long, he’d never be able to make a noise again. There were few things that made him so unhappy, but the quiet… 

“What’s on your mind?” Patton asked.

Remus jolted. Patton was staring, concern gathering in his eyes the longer he did. Remus took a deep breath- he remembered something, something small and unimportant that Janus had told him once. 

When one is so intensely happy, they can fall to agonizing upset even quicker than if they’d been mildly perturbed in the first place, because of the ferocity of the feelings. Something like that. 

“A lot more than I’m willing to throw on your shoulders, Pops.”

Patton pouted. Actually. Fucken. Pouted. The worst part was, his puppy-face was actually working.

“Ugh,” Remus rolled his eyes, “Just- could I- I dunno, have a hug, or some shit?”

If Patton was surprised, he hid it well. God knew, that wasn’t exactly the kind of thing Remus would ask for. He almost never asked to get attention- taking it was much easier, and much more entertaining. Besides, if he’d ever asked before that point… well, he already knew what answer he would’ve gotten. 

Patton’s smile only widened, until it was positively melting. “Of course you can,” he shut the sink off. “Of course.”

He reached haphazardly for a hand towel, to dry his arms. Remus, riding the high of that enthusiastic permission, absolutely could not wait that long. He latched his arms around Patton’s middle before the side had even finished talking, burying his face between his shoulder blades and hugging tight. 

Patton went still, like he didn’t know what to do. After it became clear that Remus had no intention to move, Patton laughed, dreamy and soft, and shook his hands as dry as he could. He patted Remus’ forearm; bead-bracelets clattered under the Duke’s sleeves. 

“Hey,” Patton said.

“Mmh?”

“Not that this isn’t lovely,” he laced his fingers with Remus’, squeezed them, “But I’d like it better if I could hug you back, ya know?”

Remus let go, reluctantly. In the true fashion of intrusive thoughts, there was a second he was so convinced Patton would run, now that he was freed. Make an escape from him, an escape from his claws.

He didn’t. He spun right around and pulled Remus against his chest- one arm linked around his torso, the other winding into his tangled hair. Anyone, at a glance, could see that Patton was huge- but up close the difference was dizzying: his wide chest, encircling arms that seemed to be made of nothing but muscle and padding, and that height, all made him so… comforting. Big and strong, a body that disguised power in soft edges and fat. If he squeezed just a little too tight, in fact, Remus wouldn’t be surprised if Patton could make splinters out of his bones. Which Remus definitely, definitely wouldn’t mind, but the knowledge that Patton not only could do that but also wouldn’t ever do that- that was what really did him in. 

And he’d hugged Patton before- months ago, and somehow Patton had seemed so small then, when everything had started- but being hugged? Properly, too, not underwater while one of them was drowning- it was a world of difference. No panic, no breakdowns, just a real, solid hug.

He could just ask for this and then have it. He could smell sugar cookies and candle wax, and feel somebody- a willing body- pressing in. It was weird. He thought that someday, he might get used to it. He wanted a chance to get used to it. 

“Do you wanna talk now?” Patton prompted, forcibly reminding Remus that he had a bloodhound’s nose for emotional distress. 

“I don’t know.”

Patton hummed, his fingers scratching through Remus’ hair. “Today went better than I thought it would.”

“You didn’t have to bring me, if you thought it was gonna be bad.”

“I wasn’t worried because of you! I was worried because of me. Things have been… a lot for me, lately.”

“Oh,” Remus angled his head to the side, looking up at him. “Yeah. I feel ya.”

“But they were all so much more patient, weren’t they,” Patton’s eyes went a little misty, the way they always did when he talked about his family. “Everything’s different now, and I guess that scared me, but I think that now… it’s a good different, you know?” 

“Like us, right?” Remus laughed, “This is the craziest difference, if ya think about it.”

Patton chuckled, the sound reverberating in his chest so that Remus felt it more than heard it. 

“I don’t think I would’ve gotten through with today without you, you know that?” 

It was deeply honest. There was a beat. 

“I-” Oh fuck, Remus was choked up, when did that happen? “I wouldn’t have even had a day like today, without you, so. Do with that what you want.” 

Remus buried his face in Patton’s sternum, just to avoid the sad understanding in his eyes. 

He- he wasn’t exactly made for the care he was getting, not the kind of softness in that face. Not when Patton was still patiently untangling his matt of hair while they hovered in the stillness of the dark, empty kitchen, and Remus desperately didn’t want to cry. 

Patton gave him a minute to breathe, at the very least, before:

“They like you, though. Janus loves you.”

“Yeah, okay, but it’s not-”

“I know how you feel,” said Patton, and did. “Like they couldn’t actually care about us, even though it doesn’t make sense for them not to. It’s one of those things that’s easy to forget,” Remus could hear the smile in his voice. “So it’s good we have each other, when we need to get out of our own heads. At least, it’s like that for me, I don’t know if you even-”

“No,” Remus curled his claws in the back of Patton’s shirt, something dark and emotional flooding like tar through his chest. “Nah, you’re right, Morey. This is good for us.” 

Remus shook his head at nothing in particular. He forced his hands unballed, pulled back, and wormed his way out of Patton’s hug after way too long. 

His skin felt like paper from the affection, like he’d been electrocuted, and while that was fun- was amazing- for a while, he didn’t think he could handle much more in one sitting. 

Patton let him go, smiling warmly, leaning back against the counter. His eyes were shiny and wet, but he was content. 

“Thanks,” Remus said.

“What for? The hug?”

“No- I mean, that too, but I was saying ‘thanks, for caring’. For giving enough of a shit about me to try and help.”

Patton smiled, solemnly.

“I told you so,” he breathed, “I promised I would like you when I got to know you, and then I did. I do!” 

Remus felt a grin returning to his face, sliding across his lips more naturally than anything else he’d had to deal with that night.

“Yeah. You aren’t too bad yourself, Pat.”

Chapter Seven

Taglist: @shrimp-crockpot @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls  @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

#sanders sides #ts #fanfiction #fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #ts fanfic #intruality #qpr intruality #platonic intruality #remus #patton

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

tapestry 👑 XVII

Warnings: eventual dark elements (tags to be added as fic continues)

This is dark!(king)Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: King Steven had a wandering eye but you never thought it would fall upon you.

This Chapter: The trial continues.

Note: What’s up all my thot-lovers and barnacles bitches. 💋 😉 We’re still watching some shit unfold here and this trial is gonna get unreallll. But I’m excited to keep going and to have something to feed you thirsty thirsty ho. Just a little longer... erm, I don’t know exactly how long tho.

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply! Love ya!

masterlist

In the days following King T'Challa's testimony, several witnesses were placed on the stand. Though their authenticity was questionable, they were heard with the same silent awe as the first to speak.

Prince Loki had brought a physician from Asgard who had served the royal family since his father, Odin's, reign. He swore to have examined Eleanor before she was sent away to the marry Steven and had found her virtue broken, though the document presented did attribute this to unknown but surely innocent circumstances. What else could he have written when the king's signature would seal the declaration?

Next, a chamber maid who served Eleanor when she was a princess still. The woman had no papers or letters to present and if she did, she'd not have known their contents. 

She stated that Eleanor doted upon her betrothed and spoke of her future as queen with girlish cheer. That she did blush when the prince's name arose. That the princess did divulge that she had "surrendered her heart and body" to him and that she did speak of them as husband and wife already.

Ellis presented several more documents provided by Asgard and its royal prince. A copy of the original betrothal, several letters which upheld its validity over the years between Odin and T'Chaka. 

And the most damning, a letter in Eleanor's hand addressed to her mother written after her departure to marry Steven. In it, she spoke of her lingering feelings for the other prince and her hesitation to marry the second. Though she did not question the union outright, her youthful fears were presented as knowing deception.

You watched, barely able to conceal your despair. The pit deepened in your stomach as you watched the queen stand before her accusers and her judges, head held high despite all she faced. You knew you could never be her; you could never face anything so terrible as such and indomitable force. She hadn’t slipped since her first day on trial. Her shoulders remained still, her figure straight, head held high.

And when the issue of Eleanor’s marital fealty was thoroughly dissected, the court turned its attention to the accusations of treason. On the fifth day, Lord Ellis called forth Ladies Mabel and Diana. Mabel was first, her face drawn and sullen. She was led to the stand as Ellis asked her to tell the truth and nothing more. Marion bent her head as she began to pray quietly beside you.

“Lady Mabel,” Ellis began as he looked up from the podium. “How long did you serve Eleanor of Asgard?”

“Near five years now, my lord,” Mabel answered in a small voice. 

“Mmm,” He looked down and his eyes roved over his notes. “And it was her who did request that the king arrange your marriage to Lord Wilson?”

“It was.” She replied as she brought her hands together before her. “The queen always did see her ladies married well.”

“So you would say she was generous? She has sewn no ill-will between you?”

“I would say that,” Her voice quavered and she looked behind her to the audience. She stared at her husband as a hush took over the court. “She was ever kind to me and all the ladies.”

“All her ladies?” Ellis nodded and flicked the corner of a page with his thumb. “Every single one?”

“Well…” Mabel’s voice trailed off.

“To return to my previous point, as she was so courteous, you would have no reason to speak unkindly of her would you, to lie about her for any reason?”

“No, I w-would not,” She looked to the queen and gulped. Eleanor stared at the dimming window. “I wouldn’t lie, my lord.”

“And so when you say she was kind to all her ladies, would you include in that one Lady Y/N?” You fidgeted at the mention of your name. You hid your face as you listened.

“I only ever saw the queen treat her well.” Mabel said.

“Even as she did meddle with the lady’s saddle on a hunt this past autumn?” Ellis suggested.

Mabel was silent. She gripped the podium before her and hung her head. She did not respond.

“Lady Mabel?” Ellis urged and Mabel shook her head. “Were you aware that Eleanor of Asgard did arrange for this lady to have a wild horse and an altered saddle that day?”

Mabel sniffed and didn’t move. The court waited as her shoulders began to shake. She nodded at last. You could hear her weeping.

“Lady Mabel, you must answer aloud so that the clerk may record your response.” Ellis chided.

“Yes…” She spoke softly at first and lifted her head. She gulped harshly and cleared her throat as she wiped away her tears. “Yes, I did know.”

“And how was it that you knew of the queen’s ploy?”

“She told me of it.” Her voice threatened to crack as she wrung her hands.

“When did she tell you of it?”

“After...after the incident.”

“What incident?” 

“The one in which the lady was thrown from her horse,” The tears bubbled again and Mabel hiccuped. “She didn’t mean her any harm. She didn’t. She only meant to frighten her.”

“And did you ever know Eleanor of Asgard to have any ill intent for anyone else?” Ellis asked.

“I…” Mabel couldn’t answer as she sobbed.

“Did she ever wish harm upon her husband, perhaps?”

Another sob. “I… Only…”

“You may tell the court. You will not be punished for your honesty.” Ellis coaxed. “Did she ever devise any other schemes? Against her own husband?”

Mabel was quaking. She could barely form words as her body rattled. “She… she… she did… send… poison to the king….” She spoke so quietly and yet you heard her clearly, as did the entire audience. 

“And how do you know it was her?” Ellis led her as he leaned on his podium eagerly.

“She… told… me.” Mabel swayed as she clutched her hands together. The queen pushed her shoulders back.

“And why should she tell you that?” Ellis wondered.

“Because she told me everything. Because…” She gasped. “Because… she was…my friend.”

“And did she tell you of why it was she would do such a thing? Of why she would conspire to kill her own husband?”

“Sh-she hated him,” Mabel stuttered. “She said so very often and when he came to her as a husband did, she did deny him because… she could not stand to lay--to lay next to him.” Her voice squeaked and she shuddered as she covered her tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

She kept her face buried as she repeated the words over and over. She shook so much you were sure she would collapse. The court was deathly and still. Shadows fell over the figures at the centre of the scene as the sun began its descent.

“Please, take the lady away. She is much overwhelmed,” Ellis feigned concern as he touched his chest. “I think that is quite enough, Lady Mabel.”

You looked to the box where the king sat. Steven’s eyes were bright as he watched a guard escort Mabel from the stand. He leaned over to T’Challa who turned to whisper in his ear. Prince Loki did not betray his thoughts as he looked down his long nose. You were startled however to find that he looked upon you. His cheeks twitched as if he would smirk before he drew his attention away.

“If the cardinals and your highnesses should allow it, I should think a brief recess would be in order.” Ellis intoned. “And we shall have our final witness of the day thereafter.”

“I should think it a wise idea,” The cardinal who seemed the leader of the party agreed as he rubbed his large stomach. “A day such as this has been most taxing.”

The royals nodded in approval and Ellis announced the recess. No one moved until the queen was led from her podium and out the side door. You watched her go, her steps as long and certain as any day she had sat the throne. 

You looked away as the door closed behind her. King Steven was the first to rise and the entire chamber was upon their feet within second. He searched between the bodies until his gaze fell upon you and he gave a slight nod. You did not look away; could not for you feared what should happen if you were to offend him. If you were to fall from his favour.

Surely, if these were the consequences for a queen, you could not meet any better.

👑

You were due for another day on the bench. You were tired and did not relish any further testimony. You found it hard not to think of Mabel and her distraught confessions. And Diana who followed with a similar display. Both had implicated their queen and friend, though both those titles would seem to have been relinquished.

You walked with your father. He had come to you early that morning to deliver a letter from the king. You had been want to set it aside and continue to the court if only to have it done with. He did not allow your delay and reproached you until you opened it. He read it after you did and grinned at the king’s still infatuated words. You smiled if only to conceal your distress.

As you swept through the halls beside him, you were quiet. You let him rant until he was silent and clung to the lull of his words. You did not dare fuel his lectures of your future; more importantly, of his. There would be much talking that day, as there was every day.

You turned the corner and came upon another pair in the hall. You nearly faltered as you recognized the dark-haired prince of Asgard and his burly guard just behind him. He stood with his eyes upon a large hanging. As you came upon him, you curtsied and your father bowed. Prince Loki did not look away from the map painted on elk skin.

“Lord Willis,” He said without a glance. “My lady. I assume you are upon the same path as me.”

“We are, your grace,” Your father answered and you tried not to squirm at his weaselly tone. 

“Oh, but they do always find reason to delay, so why hurry?” He mused. “Do you see these mountains?” He pointed to the skin.

“I do, your grace,” Your father turned to look alongside the prince. You peeked over his shoulder but did not near the Asgardian.

“Do you know of their history?” He asked. “Of who does claim them?”

“Why, your grace, I do see that they bear the crest of King Steven and his ancestors on this map.” Your father answered diligently.

“Upon this map, yes,” The prince smirked and you squinted at the pointed range upon the skin. “But not every map.”

“Your grace, is that not The Beak?” You ventured. “The mountains that house your ancestral temples? Those carved by the unblessed?”

He slowly turned his head, at last looking away from the map. He grinned as he stepped back and approached you. “The lady is right. Well-educated, I assume. And do you know then the answer to my first question?”

“The mountains are claimed by many; our people, yours, and those of Wakanda.” You replied. “Though for how many times they have changed hands, it cannot be said to who they belong.”

He nodded and lifted a brow. “Clever lady, indeed. You do prove the rumours true. At least those ones.”

“Rumours?” You repeated.

“I do know of you, my lady,” He affirmed. “And your alleged part in my purpose here.”

“And you would believe the whispers of a court you are unfamiliar with?” You blinked and pressed your lips together before you righted yourself. “Your grace.”

“I do not, but I know there is truth beneath each lie, merely contorted and exaggerated for effect,” He swept a strand of his dark hair back. “And the same can be said of the truth. That it can be bent to fit our needs.”

“Perhaps,” You said evenly as your father returned to your side.

“The line between truth and falsity is thin and not so firm as we should like it,” Loki reflected. “As many lines which constrain us prove to be.” He lifted his chin and looked down at you. “Shall we walk together then? Since we do seek the same destination?”

“As you wish, your grace,” Your father answered keenly but the prince didn’t so much as look at him. You bowed your head in ascent and Loki turned to walk beside you.

“Your grace, are you enjoying your visit?” Your father cajoled.

“As much as I can, given its purpose,” The prince said dully. 

You walked silently between them as they continued their courtly dialogue. The forced amiability of politicians. You did not miss the prince’s green eyes as they peeked at you. You ignored him and carried on. He must have loathed you for your role in his sister’s current circumstance, though he seemed happy enough to sit and watch it unfold.

“Well, my lord, it seems I must be away,” The prince turned as you came upon the doors to the courtroom. “I have lingered far too long. My lady,” He smiled again as he looked to you. “It was… an intriguing meeting. As brief as it was.” He stood straight and resumed his usual cool stature, “Take care.”

You watched him go and took a deep breath as he disappeared through the door. Your father squinted at you as you crossed your arms. He kept away from the other lords and ladies who waited without.

“You do not like the prince?” He asked.

“I haven’t reason not to,” You said. “I find him… cordial enough.”

“But you do seem perturbed by him.” Your father insisted.

“I do find it hard not to wonder how he can be so jaunty as he watches his sister face such an unfortunate ordeal.” You countered. “How he can let his sister stay silent as she is faced with such accusations..”

“His sister did refuse his aid,” Your father lowered his voice and beckoned you away from the crowd. “The Prince and his kingly brother did come with an offer. If she would admit to her crimes, she would be met with exile. Upon their bearing and that of her name, she would walk away to isolation and a slight taint.”

You frowned and stared dumbly at your father.

“But she does insist upon her innocence and if she cannot prove it, then she will face whatever fate the See decides upon.” You father shrugged. “So is the lot of a woman who cannot mind her place.”

“Is it?” You growled.

“It is,” He smirked at you sourly. “On women who would try to outpace a king; who would toy with him and deny his will.” You bristled as he stepped closer. “Remember this, daughter. Remember that if you should fall, we will all fall with you.”

“But you could’ve never risen without me,” You rebutted.

“And we will not remain unless you appease him,” Your father hissed. “So keep him happy and we’ll all be content.” His nostrils flared as he scowled. “And we might just keep our heads long enough to revel in it.”

Your father drew away suddenly and looked over your head. He smiled and you turned to follow his gaze. Lord Ellis and several other council members approached. You stepped back as you were quickly forgotten.

“My lords,” Your father greeted. “I see you are well this day.”

You backed away and shook your head at your father’s act. He was truly repulsive. You joined the other ladies who waited along the wall and clasped your hands together. Even if he was entirely false, your father had played the game well. He knew the court and its deceits better than any. And he was right. 

The only way to save yourself was to keep King Steven happy.

#tapestry #Steve Rogers #steve rogers x reader #dark steve rogers x reader #dark!steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers x reader #fic #au #series #medieval au #mcu #marvel #captain america #bucky barnes x reader #Bucky Barnes

[the-headbop-wraith]

X 

3 _ 40 _ The Land Time Forgot

 Part 2

 Before the Mystery Skulls could begin officially on their new assignment, they swung by headquarters office and met with security. Temporary passes went to each member, even the Mystery hound. Once the park was shut down fully and the cleaning crews made the final rounds, the crew took one assigned golf cart over to the Land that Time Forgot attraction. Arthur was issued the keys, and he was the one grumbling about coming out to do this gig.

 “Just pretend we’ve been called off holiday for an emergency exorcism,” Lewis, once again, tried to appeal for optimism.

 Arthur held the staff access open for his crew. The corridor extending within dark and though the emergency lamps buzzed active, only afforded so much light for them to navigate by. They had backpacks with essential supplies loaded up, flashlight torches among the essential gear, but for the time the trope worked with the shoddy light and let their eyes acclimate.

 “I’m goin’ through with this, right?” Arthur snapped. “You go, I follow. Let me have my bitchin’ gripes, okay.”

 Mystery set a paw on his knee and yipped.

 Through the corridor Vivi led the way, with Mystery behind her, and Arthur with Lewis trailing. “We have maps,” she stated, “but we’ll take a patrol and get our orientation.” She swung around and pointed to Arthur. “Make sure walkies are on.”

 Arthur placed a hand on his chest. “I, turn my walkie-talkie off? Never.” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together, and whispered to Lewis, “I turn it down super-duper, itty-bitty low.”

 “Maybe don’t confess that.”

 The entirety of the ride was inactive and still, like browsing through the clothing section of a store alone, while the mannequins judged your every move. Though the animatronic dinosaurs were not immediately visible, their watchful gaze was felt by the members of the Mystery crew. No draft skittered through the interior building, and despite the abundance of foliage, there was an unnatural ambiance in the dearth of nocturnal presence. Everything about the attraction became otherworldly, detached from an established norm prevalent in the former active day – wherein lights and sound ran rampant. The isolated world of the ride was by perception boundless, yet sterile and contained like an ordinary jelly jar fitted with twigs and a bit of soil to appease a small insect or lizard.

 After making the rounds of the ride, the group placed themselves at the loading dock. The carts sat on their tracks within the suspended dividers, where guests could stand to climb in or out of the carts. The dull gleam of an emergency light draped its light over the collected members.  Mystery leapt into one buggy and put his paws on the front handlebars.

 Yap!

 Arthur pulled out a folded page and slapped it to the hood of the buggy. “Okay, fifteen animatronics. All chillin’, save for one.”

 “Allo,” Lewis presumed. “Won’t stop, can’t stop. Any idea where our dino-terror might be off to?” Vivi shifted at his side, digging around in her backpack.

 “There’s no tellin’ how much truth there is to Mr. Klayton’s story.” She clicked on a torch, but quickly shut it off. “But he’ll likely respond to light or sound, and movement.”

 “Like a real T-Rex,” Arthur groused.

 “Precisely,” she whispered. “We’ll trust it responds strongly to light, over sound. So be very quiet. Arthur.”

 Arthur glared. “Why’re you picking on me?”

 Lewis poked his shoulder. “You scream. Very loud. Alerts our foes. Not good.”

 Vivi came around to Arthur’s side and clicked on her light, though she kept a had capped to its side. “Our first order of business is determine how much control can be managed over this mechanical nuisance, wouldn’t you say?”

 Arthur nodded. “Yeah. Good start.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’ll depend on what’s bugging Allo, or what’s controlling him. That’ll give us a foundation for what we’re dealing with.”

 Lewis whistled, and Mystery gave a soft yip. The dog came over to his group and waltzed around them. “Let’s get a move on then. Get this thing flushed out, and see what it’ll do.”

 “I’d rather not,” Arthur whimpered.

 Vivi pointed to him. “You and Lewis then. You brave boys, see what you can figure out about the deactivated animatronics.” She turned away, studying the abyss of the ride interior. “You wanna start from the exit or entrance?”

 “Exit,” Lewis vouched. “You and Mystery then? What’ll you two get up to?” Arthur was already folding up the page, and began rummaging through his own backpack.

 “We’ll see about coercing Allo out.” She adjusted her backpack and moved her hand a little off the flashlight. “Don’t worry about us. We won’t get into any excitement without permission.”

 Lewis started after her. “But Vii, that’s dangerous!”

 From a considerable distance, she called back, “Turn on your walkie! We’ll meet you back here!”

 Lewis sighed, and reached around to his backpack for the volume switch. “En un buen comienzo, no es así.” He clicked the transmitter. “Viiiii….” Arthur grabbed him by the sleeve and began dragging him.

 “We’ll meet them middle way on the track. The sooner we start, the quicker we can finish.” He spoke, hushed. “But make too much noise, that dino will zero in on us.”

 Once released, Lewis hopped off the end of the loading slab and followed. “You have no escrúpulos about this?”

 Arthur grumbled under his breath. “Let’s set the record straight, she saved your butt today. Don’t forget that.”

__

 When they moved beyond the range of walls and certified fortifications to guide them toward the world outside, the attraction became more unsettling as the artificial jungle scenery enclosed and thickened around them. High and in the distance, a red sign blazed faithfully above the gloomy fronds towering, but it seemed a mocking landmark, enticing misguided travelers. A lure on an angler fish, while unknown perils lurking like jagged teeth ready to ensnare the gullible.

 Trekking within the thicket was monotonous, given that Arthur examined each and all of the inactive puppets dotted throughout the foliage. This task was made possible due to an interesting and terrifying feature of the animatronics; a mirror in the eyes reflected light, similarly to genuine nocturnal animals. By setting the flashlight to their face, it illuminated the eyes and singled out where each machine was if within the appropriate range.

 “I’m getting jumpscared trying to find the chill pacifists,” Arthur muttered. He held a clipboard in both hands, while Lewis held a torch. The two sifted among the plastic and cloth replicated plants, working closer to the giant carnotaurus. The animatronic gazed into the endless black, a sentinel. “That thing is a ship with teeth.”

 The two stood beneath it, dwarfed.

 “Can you imagine if this ONE was running around?” Lewis whispered, but a little too loud. He capped his flashlight. “The damage it’d do.”

 Arthur stumbled forward, but Lewis caught him before he could fall. He grumbled about the uneven floor, where fabricated vegetation lay tattered. “Damn. Yeh. Another tally for human interference.” They made the remainder of the way to the column legs. “I haven’t seen all the entrances or exits, but it’d be more practical for them to access a machine with mobility security.” Lewis moved away from him, taking the light with him.

 “Here’s another penny for your thoughts.” Lewis aimed the torch down on the carnotaurus feet and prodded the claws with his sneaker. “Allo shredded those fences and bit a poll in two.”

 Arthur knelt, the clipboard balanced on his thigh. “Yeah, I was there. Well, sorta. What’re you getting’ at?”

 “The wood was reduced to toothpicks. Toothpicks.” Lewis applied more pressure to the claw. “Klayton said the animatronics were made nerfed, so they wouldn’t damage each other if they get into a ‘brawl’.” He did air quotes, momentarily redirecting the slice of light through the canopy. “And to prevent them from tearing up the set. But all the animatronics we’ve looked at, have pliable rubber claws. The toes here, too.”

 Arthur wrote onto the notebook pinned to his clipboard. “Good catch. So, our feathered nightmare can’t be a part of this attraction. The question now, where did he come from?”

 “Or when he arri—” Arthur leapt up and capped a hand over his mouth.

 “Shh!” He went into alert mode, spiked hair standing on end and eyes dissecting the area over-and-over. “The light,” he hissed. Lewis shut the light off. In the blanket of null and sensory deprivation, Arthur uttered, “Yu hear that?”

 Lewis wouldn’t dare move, aside from rove through the daunting gloom with his limited visual capacity. However, he trusted Arthur’s perception, there was good reason to be alarmed. Also, Arthur was rarely wrong. For a short time, nothing trickled through to suggest a presence or any direct threat. Then, a faint but ambiguous rustling – it was impossible to determine the direction. He tugged Arthur’s hand down.

 “Vivi? Mystery?” he squeaked. The sounds ceased. Not good. “Let’s go this way.” He pushed Arthur sideways. “I hope that thing doesn’t see in infrared.”

 “Don’t jinx it— ARGH!” Arthur twisted around, his legs became tangled with Lewis’ ankles and the two collapsed. This incident was to their benefit, when the allosaur launched its snout through the shrubbery and snapped on empty air. “RETREAT!” He took off running, but more shredded, decorative texture in the terrain sent Arthur crashing in a stringy-bean heap.

 Lewis rolled aside and plucked up a rock. “You stop that right now!” He brought the suspiciously light rock down on Allo’s head, which succeeded in destroying the fake plaster prop between his palms. The Allosaur seemed to blink off the assault. “I pictured that going a lot differently in my head….”

 The allosaur swung its head back and screamed a prehistoric yowl. Lewis grabbed the flashlight he dropped and staggered backwards, mind churning through the benefits of turning tail and running versus trying to face the machine. Bottom line, he needed something to slow it down with. The team studied the machine, it’s many malfunctions, and how to locate the thing….

 But forgot to devise the certified way to incapacitate it! And it was going to require more than dropping an anvil on its head.

 With a piercing snarl the allosaur thrust its jaws out, cutting the distance between it and Lewis in mere seconds. Its teeth clamped down on soft material and it began thrashing, hissing, and snorting.

 Arthur released the chunk of fake palm trunk he swung into Allo’s teeth and back peddled. “I’m all for solving this case lickety-split, but we won’t do much of that in traction.” He snatched away Lewis’ flashlight and searched the ground, until he spied the notebook with the clipboard.

 “Valid point.” Lewis began after Arthur, springing over a cracked log. “Vivi!”

 “Viv-vi!” Arthur hollered. “Where’s the road?” He jammed the notebook in the backpack and fitted it safely to his spine. One more shield between him and teeth!

 Lewis bolted between two close standing trees. “Keep running, the track winds around here. We’ll intercept with them, we gotta! Vivi!”

 A fearsome wail shot through the once silent theme ride. Despite the ground Arthur and Lewis covered, the noises of cracking timber and thumping footsteps propelled after them from the oppressive gloom. The thunder and rumble gained, growing intense and closing fast.

 Arthur barely dodged a set of small standing dinosaurs, emotionless and motionless in the dark. “Help us, we’re gunna DAI!”

 __

There was absolutely no way some hulking, mechanical nightmare could navigate the staged scenery without alerting her or her companion. The slightest movement issued rustling or crinkling, from the material used to fabricate soil and lush greenery, to the low hanging branches lumped by carefully sculpted cloth, and the canopy high above. Everything smelled artificial and tinged with dust, it reminded her of offices with the fake plants that hung around forever. Not the nice ones that looked real, but the very fake, obvious fake plants with plastic stems and ratty cloth soil with the green Styrofoam base. It was likely more impressive with the lights and sound ambiance of living things, even if artificial. She wished they had a chance to go through the ride and see what it was like.

 “Hello!” Vivi called. “Rawr! Rawr-rawr!” Then, she paused and listened. Not an echo nor a snort. Would the animatronic snort? In all the excitement that day she didn’t see much of it in action, aside from its retreating tail end. “That’s ‘I love you’ in dinosaur!”

 Bark. Mystery kept his tone low, while he slunk beneath some fern leaves.

 “Machines need love too.” She swung her flashlight through the faux grove, a thick haze of dust swirled through the blue beam. “Echo!”

 Mystery’s eyes glint as he rolled them. He trotted ahead, sniffing at the ground. It was spongy and soft, a layer of plant fiber set above sand or wood chips.

 “Any leads?”

 Woof. He toed at a fake collection of rocks – them being fake because they were glued together.

 “Maybe the therma frost broke it for good.” She snuck around a tree trunk, the structure made of cement and rock hard. A lush green, petrified tree. “I hope not, I was looking forward to cracking this case.” The light she flashed through the depths of interwoven branches, and wiggled it swiftly like a strobe.

 Mystery yipped.

 “Therma, perma. What’s the differ—ENCE!” She froze, her light caught the burning glare of twin orbs suspended three meters above the floor. “Mystery….”

 Mystery gave a noisy snort and inched forward, but wiht caution. His ears straight, eyes intense.

 Vivi let the light trail down. “Hmm?” She swung the light down and up. “Oh, that one’s way too big.”

 Borf. Mystery trotted the remainder of the way, with Vivi in tow.

 “That looks like a mini-Rex. Baby T-Rex?” she posed. She went up and touched the underside of the belly. “The eyes glow. That’s nice to know.” She continued prodding the mini-Rex. “Squishy.”

 Mystery yapped. When she turned a light on him, the hound nodded aside and resumed his trek.

 “You gotta admit, they are cool. For cheesy attractions.” Vivi whistled, as loudly as she could muster. Sometimes she would give a hoop, or a holler. “Aside from the technicians, no one else is probably allowed this close to them. Except for Allo nuisance, he does his own thing.” She took a deep breath and gave her loudest yell yet.

 Mystery stopped in his tracks and gave her the widest-eyed stare.

 Vivi aimed the torch through the brush, listening. “Where could it be? We don’t have the time to search half the park this night.”

 A few yards away, Mystery padded up a decorative slanted log and perched at the peak. Nothing to the right, nothing to the left. Yip! He leapt off and landed beside Vivi. He grumbled under his breath and barked.

 “Let’s wait ‘til we meet up with them. We might cross paths on the way there.” It would be a while before they returned to the entrance of the ride, but somewhere they had to cross paths with the Allosaur. That is, if the machine was still within the attraction, or within sensory range to her dino-summons. She was beginning to doubt it remained inside the attraction, if like Mr. Klayton indicated, it was becoming more mobile. That was going to be a problem.

 “If we can’t draw it out,” she began, “we can’t devise a way to coax it, or restrain it. It shredded a fence just fine, but maybe we can tangle it up in a good net?”

 Yarf.

 “Cliché. But effective.” A sound from the rear startled her. She whipped around with the flashlight, holding steady and listening. It wasn’t a sound, was it? The fake foliage settling as they passed, nothing ominous or pursuing. “A snare?” She flashed the light over the tree branches. “Hmm. But what sort of cable and how much tension?”

 Mystery whined.

 “I want to get with Arthur on that.” She turned her light and recoiled! An ominous and hulking shape crouched behind a flowering palm plant. A stegosaur, or something. It stood on four short, but column legs. “I don’t trust the owner, or Ms. Attorney Lady. But I wanna catch him in a lie, and try getting a read if he’s into something shady or….”

 The walkie-talkie crackled against her backpack, squealing with a surge of static and muffled yammering, all of what might’ve been voices.

 “Or if he’s not very bright,” she ended, in sigh. She unclipped the communicator and snapped the send button. “Lewis! That you?”

 “AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

 “Lewis.” She snapped the device away when a roar ripped through.

 Mystery sat down and gave his ear a well-deserved scratch.

 “Talk to me, boys! What’s happened?” She picked up with a run, the beam of her torch bounded across the uneven terrain and across elephant ear leaves. “I think I know what’s going on, but are you okay?” Mystery caught up at her side, his collar rattling in rapid succession with his zipping stride.

 In the background and distant, Arthur came through chattering up a panicked storm, “It found us! We’re bein’ chased— WeWereSoFuckingCarefulThisIsUtterBullShit!”

 “Language Arthur!”

 “My gods, Lewis! We’re gunna DAI!” The communicator gave a dramatic, electrical wail as Vivi toggled the relay switch.

 “Okay! Okay! We’re on our way, don’t panic!”

 Bark!

 “Who’s panicking?” Arthur wailed. “We’re being chased! We’re so lost, and we’re being chased!”

 Lewis hollered through, loud and clear, “Where are you!”

 “Not at the entrance.” One of the animatronics was in her path, once again freaking her out – what with all the noises churning through the communicator. “Find your way to the backside! I don’t know where we are! Can you make it to the back? This place is a box, we can follow along the wall—”

 A response was not forthcoming, not for her. Lewis gasped, speech labored, “Watch out!” Following came snippets of silence, with patches of Arthur screaming and the Allosaur shrieking. Some sort of distinctive weight thumped, almost vibrating the walkie-talkie in her palm. There was some cussing in there and harsh scuffling. The screech of the Dinosaur became intense, until it was right there in the communicator.

 “What’s happening?” Vivi halted in her tracks and listened through the device, terse and powerless.

 Mystery shot by, his barks fading as he tore through the pseudo jungle. Vivi resumed in a job, leaping logs and some sort of small animal puppet. The whole time, the communicator was treacherous and silent.

 “Hang in there! Mystery and I got your trail!” When she snapped her finger off the transmitter, Arthur’s voice punched through:

 “This was a bad idea! I told you guys, didn’t I say? I called it! One Hundred Percent CALLED IT! I’m a fucking seer! AYYYEEEEEE!”

 RAAARRR!

 “Just shut up and run!” Lewis snarled.

 __

  How far the Allosaur was behind them, this was hard to say. It followed with intense, single-minded focus, pronouncing the diminishing stretch by cavernous bellows. The duo was in some horrendous video game level with an instant game over, snapping at their heels.

  The jittering beams of their flashlight flickered across the thick fibrous carpet, revealing snags and gleaming across sinister disasters hidden among the shadows. Though, neither Arthur or Lewis paid much mind to the ground beneath them – except to save them from colliding with a low branch – focus was averted high above, to the bright mocking glare of the EXIT sign. It was a beacon in the night, the easiest recognizable landmark in the abyss of the hellish attraction.

  “Hang in there! Mystery and I got your trail!” crackled through the radio Lewis gripped, the plastic creaked under intense pressure.

  He toggled the transmitter, “THANK YOU!” He was having a hard time keeping up with Arthur, despite inspiration being super motivating.

  The Allosaur gave a peeling shriek, the noise of it vibrating in Lewis’ ears, growing louder and more deafening. It was right at his backside.

  Lewis scrapped between two narrow trees, nearly getting wedged in the narrow space. A rebounding Thunk! echoed, and the Allosaur hissed. But the sound of it did drift away. However, he did not stop to look or spare a thought, he recovered his speed and tried to catch up with Arthur. He pinpointed him by the sporadic patches of yellow light flittering through the shrubs, and managed to catch his stride.

  “Pepper!” he panted.

  “Kingsman!” Lewis vaulted over a rock.

  “Nice day at the office!”

   “Marvelous! Absolutamente asombroso!”

  “Technically, it’s nighttime.”

  Lewis exhaled, “True!”

   A thundering screech crashed through the plastic flora somewhere to the left. The Allosaur was gaining, due to the fact it was not a living animal. On the other hand, Lewis and Arthur ran on fumes.

  “The Exit, there should be a door!” Lewis huffed. The red beacon was neigh ninety degrees airborne, a few more meters they should come to the boarders of the building.

  The line of his light did hit a sheer and solid surface, which by the explanation of his light revealed a rugged boarder of stone standing at about ten or eleven feet. Well above his height clearance. But there was no clean cut wall, no slate, and no irrefutable explanation of exit. Nothing but a cliff face.

  Being more spry and agile, Arthur flew up the wall like a squirrel. He chucked his light up, his hands caught grips with practiced ease and with a small bit of leverage propelled himself skyward.

   That looked easy! Lewis jammed the flashlight between his teeth and felt for a handhold. His fingers easily found a knot, he braced his foot and—

  Fell backwards. With a hunk of cheap plaster gripped in his hands.

   “Lewis!” Arthur set his light down on his teammate, and hissed, “What the FACK?! Get up here!”

  Lewis bit down on his flashlight and scrambled to his feet. From his safe perch, Arthur held the light steady while Lewis took another fixture of the coarse wall and shoved his toes into niche. He managed to ease himself up a foot or so, but applying too much weight and the crappy Styrofoam snapped. The outer layer was stiff and scrapped his knuckles when he came down. Lewis looked up at Arthur and they locked eyes.

  “AAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

   The Allosaur shrieked. Arthur turned his light up, catching the eye sheen of the animatronic as it barreled through the fake jungle. “Oh my god! Um, Don’t move! I’ll get help!”

  Lewis spat out the flashlight. “Arthur?” The Allosaur expelled another echoing howl. He turned, angling his light through the thicket. “Arthur!” The soft yellow light that drenched him, was now gone. Lewis had never felt so alone, so utterly betrayed. “ARTHUR!”

  The thundering parade of the Allosaur hurtled toward his focal point, everywhere it went the plants rustled and crashed. It snarled, the sounds of its violent procession closing in on him. It must have infrared vision!

  Lewis pressed his back against the cold fake rock. The Allosaur bounded through the thicket, the frayed ends of his light brushed against its snout. It closed in with terrible swiftness, weaving around artificial plants, but never once detracting for more than a millisecond. Lewis began inching away, if he timed it right, it might just shatter its CPU. But his timing had to be impeccable.

  A blissful light drenched his shoulders, along with a stringy long rope thing. Likely a vine prop. The tale end of Arthur’s hoot, “—Tight!” Came through, and Lewis had enough foresight to piece together the full phrase. Without delay he dropped his flashlight and grabbed the rope.

  The Allosaur barreled forward, chewing through the remaining few feet, teeth glittering in the spotlight Arthur cast. Lewis braced himself, he wasn’t sure what for. A Tarzan themed holler peeled from above high, and Lewis shot up at rocket speed. The angle of the line zipped him across the upper edge of the plaster cliff face. He cleared it but barely, his jeans scrapped eliciting a sharp yelp. Out somewhere across the open air, the Tarzan yowl waned in its descent.

  Then Arthur really started screaming.

   Lewis had to release the vine thing, or he would have gotten skinned on the concrete surface of the floor he was on. He crawled to the edge, and peering down tried to make sense of the swaying murk below. A succession of snarling poured forth of the large, black heap; it thrashed and swept into a stray flash of the yellow beam Arthur held. He thought this was clear indication where Arthur wound up, but the light cut off. He heaved off his backpack and dug through the folders and tools, until his palms clasped the large cylinder camping lamp.

  “I did NOT THINK THIS THROUGH!”

  He clicked the light on and turned it down. There was Arthur, running around the erratic animatronic. The dinosaur roved in circles, shaking and snapping, not fully invested in chasing the yellow blur. After affording a brief examination, he recognized the actual issue. The other end of the rope was snagged between its teeth, and the animatronic was fighting to cut it free. The line was tangled somewhere, this provided by how every time the Allosaur went to turn on Arthur, it’s head snapped sideways.

  “Arthur!” he hooted. “ArthurArthurArthurArthur!” He dashed along the edge of the cliff flailing the flashlight around. “Get over here ya dweeb!”

  The rope at last snapped with a grueling CRACK! and the Allosaur swept its snout towards the tiptoeing figure. A peeling shriek, something like an EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE shot out of Arthur as he did a one-eighty and charged out into the jungle thicket.

  A rumbling snarl thundered out as the Allosaur resumed its chase, it’s tail flashing out of sight within the shrubbery.

  Lewis stamped his foot. “Damnit!”

  __

  Meanwhile, Arthur was running for his life. Several times he nearly stumbled or lost his footing. Though he had the advantage of choosing a tight pathway difficult for Allo to pursue, the animatronic was not distracted by a second target. It was able to lay full focus on him, and track him with crazed efficiency. Or frenzy. He managed to catch his second wind in the meager intermission, but his muscles were giving out. Running on the spongey floor was strenuous, and the Allosaur’s grating call was closing in. If it got a clean opening, it would have its jaws on his neck.

  There! He took a sharp right, in the line of sight of Allo. The dinosaur lunged, but Arthur already tucked into a stunt roll. Its feet trounced the earth right behind his shoulders, but he kept going until he was back on his feet. At no more than two meters there was some shadow, and bent – what he guessed would be roots – the trees weren’t real. But that black, unmistakable, hollowed space – there was no mistake on what that was. He’d stake his life on it, as he was about to.

  The roots were concrete, hard as stone, bent and arched around a gouged hollow beneath the fake tree. Arthur clambered through the wedge, with the Allosaur not more than a breath behind his feet. His immediate thought was, ‘How deep is this!’ He smacked his flashlight against the wall and the light doused, the space around him blacked out. His hands prodded the walls seeking space or drafts, he jammed his elbows and shoulders at every inch, pushing further away from the hissing hydraulics of the Allosaur as it snapped and worked its way after him.

  He felt the walls and ceiling, using his legs to kick for any missed crease that might afford an exit. There was nothing but concrete on all sides – left, right, up, and down – solid, unyielding.

  “SHIT!”

  The Allosaur snapped its jaws inches from his knee. “Fuck you!” Arthur tried kicking its snout, however ineffective it was. The machine twisted its neck and squeezed in further, the servos in its jaws whirling. It wouldn’t help, even if he wasn’t exhausted. He had nowhere to go—

   Something snagged his collar and yanked him upward. He gave a little sob.

  “Gotcha! I got ya Artie!” Lewis heaved him out of the hollow between the knotted roots, and dropped him on the ground. “You okay?” He adjusted the camping light, checking Arthur over, making sure he was in one piece.

  “Yes, fuck! That was too close!” Arthur gave his own body a full pat down. All there, except for the gash in his vest where he fell earlier. All the stuffing on that side fell out. “It almost turned me into bubblegum!” He got onto his feet and paced a bit, before stopping to hunch over and set his palms to his knees. He just needed to breathe a moment.

  “Take it easy now, you’re fine.” Arthur took a noisy breath and gargled. “Smooth, climbing into that… what is this? A burrow?” Lewis turned his light onto the opening, where he hauled Arthur out.

  ��I don’t give a toot what it is.” Arthur rounded the side of the tree, but cautiously. The Allosaur was still being raucous, snarling and grunting. It sounded like they had some time to catch their breath. “Probably for those lil dinosaur thingies. Are they chickens? The small nuggets.”

  Lewis quirked his brow and shined the light across his face. “Raptors?”

  “Chicken tenders,” Arthur insisted.  Lewis came over with the light and stood beside him, observing as the Allosaur persisted with its struggles. And failed to free itself.

  “It’s… not getting loose, huh? It’s stuck.” He shined the light lower, against the backside and shoulders of the unruly thing. It was surreal, watching the rubber suit cover on the dinos backside jiggle, but not ripple like the way muscles should. As muscles would, if on a real animal. For most of the night they were running from this thing, and it felt very real, like a hunting predator. Not some deranged AI, or whatever went off with it. Nonetheless dangerous, but creepy and sinister.

  “Y’know what,” Lewis went on, stunned, “I think you caught it!”

  Arthur gasped. “NO!” He leaned a little closer, but wouldn’t get too close. “No! Really? I did it? I did it! The case is over!” He throws his arms up. “WHOO! I am a mastermind!”

  “Don’t get too hyped,” Lewis warned. “We caught it, but we still don’t know what’s up with it, or if someone is controlling it.”

  “CASE CLOSED!” Arthur hooted. “Our contract said we have only gotta catch it! Done deal!”

  Lewis chuckled and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Por el amor de…” he sighed. “Y’know, lemme be honest, I thought you bailed back there. On that cliff.”

  Arthur dropped his arms and gave Lewis a befuddled stare. He winced when Lewis shined the light his way. “What! What kind of loser do you take me for? Abandoning my best bro. Get outta here.” Lewis laughed.

  “It was pretty stupid.” He turned the light back onto the Allo. “I have a habit of overestimating myself, getting in over my head. You guys… always come back, and keep me outta trouble.”

  Arthur shrugged. “Eh, we’re even now. Right?”

  “Right.” He held up his fist. Arthur smirked, and returned the fist bump.

   The Allosaur gave a grating wail, gears grind in its neck as the body twisted, the rear legs shoved at the padded terrain. At the cement roots, they crackled and squealed. With another shriek, the Allosaur ripped its shoulders free – a flint of light ignited off the Allosaur’s neck.

  “Shit!” Lewis backed up, and pulled Arthur with him.

  “Fuck a balloon!”

  The Allosaur hauled its arms and neck free, the cement barrier that once caged it snapped apart. Lewis swung his light on the dinosaur, the beam momentarily illuminated a space on its arm torn open, revealing foam and inner padding. It was fleeting, and before Arthur or Lewis could react to what would happen next, the dinosaur veered aside and charged off. Disappearing into the fake foliage of the eerily silent jungle. The thundering footfalls and rustling shrubbery diluted after seconds, until once more silence tormented the fabricated fauna sprawling abundant.

  Arthur dropped, but Lewis caught him before he collapsed entirely. The taller figure held onto his friend, and used his other arm to pat his back. Arthur sniffled and shuddered.

  “There-there. We knew it was way too easy.”

   “We never get a freebee!”

  Off somewhere, echoing yaps rebounded through the area. Lewis gave a holler, and reached down to take up the camping lamp. “Over here!” He swung the light around, flashing the vibrant rosy beam through the clutter of petri-timber. “We’re okay!”

  “No we’re not!”

  Lewis sighed. “We’re in one piece!”

   “Yeah!”

  Soon, the panting rasp of a dog threaded its way towards the two. Once Lewis was able to interpret the direction, he hauled Arthur with him toward his teammates. “Vivi?”

  “Yeppers!” she called. She was not far from the dogy gasping. “You got away from it?” The swaying blue beam preceded the clopping footfalls as she raced to them, out of breath and hair frazzled. “What happened? You’re both okay?” Upon seeing Arthur hanging off Lewis, she handed her flashlight off to Mystery and knelt before him.

  “He’s in a little shock.”

  Arthur whimpered, “It got away.” Vivi scrunched up her face.

  “That’s… not something I expected to hear from you.”

  Arthur brought his hands to his head. “No! We managed to trap it—”

  Vivi turned her eyes up to Lewis. “You caught it!”

  “Eh,” Lewis shrugged. “Isn’t that past-tense?” He moved down the slope, guiding the path with his lamp. “Temporarily snared.”

  Vivi groaned, “I miss all the fun stuff!” Arthur balked.

  The group examined over the area, inside the warren and the arched cement tree roots, decorative fantasy décor for the ride-goers. Vivi took interest in the snapped root ends, where the rebar stuck out, warped and shattered.

  Vivi poked the corrupt end of rebar. “Can we decide how much gauge of cable to use, when we need to catch it?”

  Arthur stood nearby, gazing off into the thicket with Lewis’ lamp flittering through the grove. “Sure. I don’t think it’ll have that much tensile strength in its hydraulics.” He perked his lips and nodded his head. “But we’ll work on how to keep it from tearing loose later. We kinda fucked up figurin’ how we’ll get it into the trap, though.”

  Lewis was crouched, giving Mystery’s shoulders a rub while the dog laid on the floor resting. “True. But we can vouch that Mr. Allo is on someone’s payroll.” He perked, and stood. “Did you see, Art? It did rip its skin cover, on its arm.”

  Arthur didn’t answer immediately, vouching to listen and study the perimeter. “We can try shorting it, given if the interior wiring isn’t insulated. That’s no guarantee.” He patted his own arm. “Insulation takes time to incorporate, and costs extra. It would also bulk out the equipment. So, we can think of that as an alternative, if getting it to behave doesn’t work.”

  Vivi stretched and gave a yawn. “Okay, we have some intel to work with. It seems like time to call it a night, sound good?”

  “You won’t hear a complaint from me,” Arthur chimed. “Stick a fork in me.” He was already walking away, with Mystery hurrying after. Lewis grabbed up his backpack and followed.

  “The Allo might need to recharge,” Lewis mentioned. He took Vivi’s hand, and helped her up a loose fitted slope. “Each animatronic has a battery life for a few days, but we don’t know how long our friend has been running amuck. That might be the reason it took off.”

  Vivi adjusted the light between her hands. “We’ll snoop around the park in the morning, try and find where it went and build our game plan. Did you guys hear me, I was making a lot of noise. That thing didn’t give a truck about Mystery or me.”

  Ruff!

  “I didn’t hear ya, but I’ll take your word for it” Lewis affirmed. “Someone has access to the Allo controls.”

  Vivi stroked her chin. “Someone that knows we’re investigating the park.”

  Together, Lewis and Vivi did a dramatic, “Hmm….” Simultaneously.

  Arthur yawned and rubbed his face. “Can you guys draw up accusations tomorrow? After we’ve slept on it.”

  Woof.

   Together, the Mystery Skulls navigated their way through the fabricated jungle, trading stories on the encounter with the Allosaur and their escape. At one point Arthur stopped midsentence and in his tracks, then turned the camping lamp around the area they were currently within.

  “Where the fuck are we?”

#mystery skulls #Alive!Lewis #msa #mystery skulls fanfic #mystery skulls fanfiction #fanfiction #msa fanfic #msa fanfiction #msa arthur #msa vivi #msa mystery #mystery skulls ghost #mystery skulls animated

[valhallanrose]

Funeral Bell

Astoria’s foray into the labyrinth spawns more questions than they can find answers for on their own - but the journey to find those answers will be more disastrous than they thought. 

Astoria is nonbinary, and uses she/they pronouns interchangeably. 

Title: Funeral Bell by PHILDEL

2.2k words. No CWs apply. 

The quiet clicking of Astoria’s boots on the marble beneath their feet was deafening, punctuating the emptiness of the hall as their pacing quickened with every passing moment. 

When they were well enough to travel, Myrna had done the best thing she could think of - bring Astoria down the mountains to the first Prakran port in the valley she could find and board the first ship that would let them book passage to the Republic of Galbrada. 

The Whitethorn Citadel had long since been a friend of Myrna Canonach. They’d employed her for one task or another over the years, transporting artifacts and manuscripts that they feared might become damaged without the care of someone who would monitor their transport and the conditions they were kept in when traveling over sea and land. Though they paid her well for her work, they had always promised Myrna that should she need anything, their resources were at her disposal - all she needed to do was ask. 

And Myrna, with Astoria in her shadow, had deemed it time to call in those favors. If anyone could explain what had happened to Astoria, it was going to be the scholars at the Citadel. 

When they were granted audience, the council had made it clear that they only wanted to speak to Myrna, which left Astoria where they were now: standing out in the hall, pacing across the marble floors and wringing gloved hands nervously while the clock ticked by.

To them, it felt like Myrna had stepped inside the council room hours ago. 

Voices rose beyond the heavy wooden door, but the words were unintelligible - though Astoria could make out enough to tell that someone was angry, and odds were, it was about them. 

The clicking of their boots came to a halt as Astoria stopped outside the door, framed the archway as they looked down to their carefully gloved hands and tried to squash down the burning that welled up in the corners of their eyes. 

This had become the new normal.

Ever since they’d come out of the labyrinth, the welcoming smiles they’d always known had changed, hiding wariness and curiosity that made them feel more like an artifact on display than a person. They wanted to scream, to cry, every time a hand was laid on their shoulder and they were asked if they were alright, because the answer was a resounding no - I’m not sure if I’ll ever be alright - but they knew the answer that was wanted was one of strength, one of ‘everything’s fine, we’ll figure this out, I’ll stop at nothing to get answers’. 

They couldn’t stand being touched anymore, either. Every time they came in contact with someone’s bare skin it was like the world fell away and all they could hear was the roar of blood in their ears, the steady pounding of a heartbeat not their own echoing in their chest until they finally managed to break away from whatever spell they’d fallen under. The gloves helped with that - it reduced the chance of contact Astoria wasn’t prepared for - as did their clothing, which they chose carefully now to cover as much of their skin as possible. Even Myrna’s gentle hand on their shoulder made them jump, made them fear the trance until they realized that she too had taken to wearing gloves when trying to comfort their grandchild. 

It made them feel human, in an odd way. Respected. Cared for. Like someone was still listening when it felt like their voice was being drowned out. 

The hinges squealed as the door opened, drawing Astoria’s eyes up from their gloved palms to meet Myrna’s tired gaze - they noticed the irritated flush to her face and the way her hair looked ruffled from the way she ran her things through it when she was frustrated - and hesitantly took a few steps forward when Myrna beckoned for them to come inside the room and join them. 

The council, or the governing body of the Citadel, was made up of five members. Three of which currently sat at the raised marble slab, notes laid out on the surface - two men, one on each side, and a woman seated in the middle who had quite a motherly smile on her face despite the situation. 

“Hello, Astoria.” She greeted, setting her quill down to give them a slight wave. “You may call me Dorothea. How are you feeling?”

Like hell. 

“I’m okay.” Astoria folded their arms, hands loosely gripping their sleeves as they stepped a bit closer. “How are you?”

“Worried, I’ll admit.” Dorothea sighed, folding her hands in front of herself on the table. “Astoria...your grandmother has been kind in retelling what has happened, but we worry that we aren’t getting the full story. We need to hear it from you, to make sure that we are getting the full truth.”

Myrna scoffed behind Astoria, and Dorothea shot her a look, then turned her gaze back to Astoria with an expectant expression on her face. 

Please tell me this is the last time.

“I can do that.”

“Good.” Dorothea picked up her quill again and gave Astoria a nod. “When you’re ready.”

And so, Astoria began to speak, arms wrapped around themself for some sense of security and feeling like they were mere inches tall under the weight of speculative eyes. The sounds of quills scratching on paper, once comforting, was deafening - distracting enough for Astoria to lose their place a few times and need prompting to continue when they fell silent for too long. 

It wasn’t the labyrinth they were afraid of, not anymore. But every time they got to the part about the sepulcher...they couldn’t keep the tremors out of their voice, no matter how many times they told the story, and they carried through until the very end. Detailing the days after, fearing madness as they lie awake in their tent and try in vain to block out the heartbeats of dozens of colleagues and friends, staying awake for days until their body shut down and forced them to sleep - it made them realize how tired they were, physically and mentally, of living life like this. 

There was a long, long silence as Dorothea set her quill down, raising clasped hands to rest against her chin and staring down at Astoria with an unidentifiable look in her eye before she broke the silence by addressing them. 

“Thank you, Astoria, for your candor.” 

Astoria only nodded, watching as Dorothea’s gaze shifted to look behind her and address Myrna directly over their head. 

“Myrna, I believe the best course of action...would be for you to enroll Astoria here, allow them to remain here for the foreseeable future while we examine their affliction -”

No. 

“- it would be best if you do not stay, Myrna. We understand your concern for Astoria, but your presence might make them hesitate to share information with us -”

Not like this. 

“- of course they’ll be well taken care of, and you’re welcome to visit any time -”

“Please.” Astoria whimpered, Myrna’s head turning toward them as the words caught and died in their throat. “I don’t...I don’t want…”

Their voices overtook Astoria’s, no matter how many times they opened their mouth and tried to force the words out, but...none of them would even look in their direction. It made them feel so small, so insignificant, as if they weren’t even there no matter how much Myrna argued for them to take some time to consider, that there was no rush to make a decision right that second if they didn’t know what they were dealing with. 

It was too much. Too much on Astoria’s fragile heart, bearing the weight of fear and change and utter exhaustion, to not break when a hand pressed down on the scales and tipped them over the edge. 

The shout that ripped from their throat would leave them hoarse for days, tears streaking down their cheeks unbidden as they finally, finally, cracked under it all. 

“Why won’t you listen to me?”

It was like time...stopped. 

The room was silenced in an instant. Not a bird sang through the open windows, not a page ruffled in a gnarled hand, not a pen scratched across the wooden surface of a desk - complete and utter silence, as if they’d all frozen in place no matter what they’d been doing before their outburst.

“I am not some gods-damned object to be studied, dissected, and put back together solely for your own gains!” They ripped off a glove, wiping fiercely at their cheeks in an effort to try and hold some semblance of composure. “Not a single one of you cares about how I feel, cares about what I want when I didn’t ask for any of this. I want to stop feeling like I need to crawl out of my own skin when someone touches me, I want to stop feeling like a stranger in my own body, I want to stop feeling like I’m on the brink of losing my mind at any moment.”

Distraught, Astoria whipped the glove down to the floor, hair billowing around their shoulders and sticking slightly to the wet tear-trails on their cheeks as they looked back up to the three council members seated before them.

“You can’t just...you can’t just take that choice away from me.” Their voice broke, new tears spilling over and blurring their vision behind their glasses. “I want answers. I want them, so, so badly. But I want my life back. I want to know how to control this, not just be a source of information to be gawked at until you say I’ve given you all I can. I’m...I’m tired of feeling like this. I know it won’t go back to normal, I’m not so stupid as to think there’s a way my life will ever be the same. But I want to know that I can get close to it, and I want to know I can live my life in the world out there without being afraid of myself at every unknown turn.”

When they rubbed their eyes with the heels of their hands and managed to look at this fragment of the council - really look at them - confusion overshadowed their distress as they took a single step toward the trio seated before them. 

They hadn’t moved, once. They thought they were imagining it, seeing the same expression and same positions of their body right down to the place their quills sat on parchment, but...they realized with some horror that they weren’t imagining it at all. 

They realized when they looked to Myrna that they could see the slightest tremor in the hand that gripped the silver-wrought handle of her cane, see the way her irises darted back and forth and her hand was still outstretched, reaching for Astoria with that ever-comforting look on her face. Her arm hung in midair, fingers outstretched as she took a step toward her grandchild, but...locked in place, as if someone had captured her likeness in colored stone. 

And there was...a beating, at their fingertips, something they could feel through their gloves as if it was buried beneath their skin from the moment they’d come into this world. 

Astoria flexed their fingers, wetting dry lips with confusion muddling their mind - 

Canonach. 

Astoria’s head snapped up, searching the room for the source of the voice that had echoed in their ears, then looked toward Dorothea - her brow tipped slightly down, as if it was the only gesture of concentration she could muster as they realized it was her voice they were hearing. 

Breathe. I need you to breathe, and I need you to let go.

Let go? What could they possibly...

...no. They realized it, looking inward, that the pit they felt in their stomach was not a pit at all. There, as if it were coiled in their gut, they could feel the tension, the stiffness, like a spring stretched too tight and ready to snap should you give it a single turn more. 

Astoria took a shaky breath in, holding it for a moment before they let it out, and the spring unwound with a pace that made Astoria stumble back and fall square on their ass on the cold marble floor. 

Myrna, Dorothea, and their silent compatriots all collapsed like puppets with cut strings - gasping for air as Astoria sat numb on the stone. They didn’t register Myrna dragging herself upright with her cane, limping heavily as she rushed to Astoria and threw arms tight around their shoulder. 

They’d...they’d done that. Stopped them all in their tracks without even a second thought, the realization ice in their veins as Myrna pulled them in and whispered words Astoria couldn’t quite comprehend over the ringing in their ears. 

Astoria glanced up, finding Dorothea rising from her seat, seeing her expression twist into something between awe and fear for a single moment before they buried their face in the side of Myrna’s neck to try and avoid looking anyone in the eye. 

Why did it feel like every time they came a step closer to finding answers, they felt like they lost a piece of themself in the process?

#astoria fenharrow #i'm trying to finish the rougher parts of their arc but I PROMISE IT GETS BETTER #my writing

[the-scarlet-witch-22]

Fellow musician here, who is your favorite composer and why?

Hello fellow musician 🥰

Ooo okay so... This is so hard to choose 😭😭 I’ll give you a top 3 because I can’t choose off the top of my head and even narrowing it down to just 3 was difficult af. Also my answers are definitely super basic but I’m a lil violinist who just enjoys having the melody so 😌

3.) Tchaikovsky: Tchaik is one of those composers who I simply am obsessed with. First of all, all of his symphonies are just absolute genius. The last pre-covid symphony concert I played had Tchaik #4 on the program and I still get chills thinking about it. It’s just SO good. And as a composer I really love the way he writes for the violin. He really gets me 😌

2.) Shostakovich: I could write a twenty page essay regarding my love for Shostakovich. The first time I played one of his string quartets was my junior year of high school at music camp (my fingers still ache from String Quartet No. 8). He’s just so beyond brilliant, and although I adore my sweet little romantic style pieces, there’s something really fun in playing something more dissonant, and don’t even get me started on movement 2 of String Quartet No. 8, I have nightmares still from learning it (but I love you anyways, Shosty)

1.) Okay so I would like to start off by saying this is coming from the opinion of a very self centered violinist but... number one is definitely Mendelssohn. I learned Concerto in E Minor my junior year of high school. I had wanted to learn it for so long and my private lessons teacher finally decided I was ready and I actually cried when he gave me the music. God. It’s so gorgeous SO so so gorgeous and it’s still one of my all time favorite pieces to play. As far as violin concertos go it’s just...I could listen to it on repeat every single day and never get tired of it. There’s so much to dissect there and I swear I hear something new every time I listen.

Notable mentions: Sibelius, Dvorak, Beethoven, and Brahms

[impulsivelycontentious]

No one reads this or connects it with my other online identities but since I've removed personals involvement from my other social media stuff, and I feel like bitching, I am jsut gonna go ahead and do it.

So I have brain damage. Yeaaaaars ago I threw up so hard I actually ripped open the inside of an artery in my neck, and it threw a clot, and that clot did some nasty shit on its way on through and out.

No doctor noticed for two weeks.

Everyone else did.

Good times.

Anyway.

So now I have a damaged brain. Brains don't grow back. Some areas can regenerate a few cells - notably the prefrontal lobe - but mostly brains fix themselves not by regenerating like skin does, but by rearranging the cells we have to fire to fancy new configurations.

This has been quite the ride. Because shit, it changes things.

I don't even know how much of my personality is consistent. No idea. Let alone everything else.

I have memory loss my nurologist won't akowledge because it falls short of dementia. That was the bar. "You don't have dementia, you know what year it is." Gee thanks there chief.

Anyway.

My brain wasn't too stable to begin with. I have always been prone to logic leaps that occur very quickly and not necessarily in ways other people would make them. My mind is jumbled and a little random and things collide all the time that probably shouldn't.

This has become much worse since the brain damage. See, my brain keeps wiring shit together. Shit it really shouldn't. It changes who I am, what I think, what I can think.

It's actually quite terrifying to realise you're a sack of geletine misfiring lighting at itself.

So anyway. To the point. Yes - I have one of those. Probably. It's somewhere in here.

Oh right, no, another detour. I'm autistic. "Oh yeah, they definatly didn't screen girls when I was a kid because how the fuck did they miss this otherwise" autistic.

Back to the point.

Recently I had this sensory processing ... Whatever the fuck that was. I call them.idssocistive episodes. I don't know how accurate that is. But my mind unhooks from my sensory data. Everything feels muted and unreal - sound, sight, touch, heat. Name it. It's wrong.

I hate these.

It gets particularly nasty because there are nurologicsl consequences. See, my concious mind ramps up it's interpretation of sensory data. It goes all in and leaves the rest of my existence stuffed in this tiny little box without enough space to do dick.

One effect of this is I suddenly become highly obsessive. I think it's a comfort mechanism, I require the same stimulus over and over again or to somehow mentally connect it to the same element. Of course, it could also jsut be that obsessive behaviour towards interests is part of who I am. I am autistic. I DEFIANTLY go all in when something fascinates me. But not... Not like this.

Do you have ANY IDEA how many times I watched starwars 8 in 72 hours? Any clue? Holy fricking ... Something. I watched it fast. I watched it slow. I watched it skipping ahead 10 seconds every 10 seconds. I dissected that thing in micrscopic detail.

It gets better. Because mere hours before I got hit with this episode... I was not a starwars fan.

Nope. I watched it. It was ok. I wasn't going out of my way for it.

And suddenly. Wham. Episode 8. All the time. I watched some 7 and 9 as well but it was like it was entierly because eit was connected to 8.

I cannot even.

And while this is happening, *I know*. I know. I really do. I know this isn't my normal behaviour. I know this isn't my wheelhouse. I know something is deeply, deeply wrong in my brain.

I think it might actually be an ok movie, honestly. But not THAT good. And now it's one of my favourite things. Forever. I have no idea if it's actually good. Did I not give eit a chance the first time? Is my obsessive brain simply emotionally hooked up how? Fuck, I don't know.

So that's why I'm posting today. On this day. May 4th.

I'm seeing a lot of star wars today and it's making my brain tickle with it's own ridiculousness.

Not the whole point though. Because it lasted 72 hours (I watched dit one more time after that and if wasn't near as intense).

But what happened AFTER my 72 hours as an obsessive raylo (oh yeah. I went there. I'm not even ashamed. I am also compeltely content with the end they got, because I do not see that shit working out).

Brains don't regrow. They rewire.

And suddenly, I'm drawing. Like... A lot. I filled pages of doodles. Sketches. I redrew a peice I'd been working on for about a month in a few hours and damnit, it was good. It's not professional quality but I'd never down anything that well before. This goes on for another day. And then I started a story, and I wrote 2000 words all at once.

I'm dyslexic. And words are severely impacted by my brain damage to the point it can cause me phsycial pain to force my thoughts in to words.

And here I am. Going nuts on my phone. The words just spilling out and again - damnit, it was good shit.

My brain was abstracting. Where the concious sort had been shunted, it wasn't directing the abstracting aspect of my mind.

And I was making cognative leaps. My brain was wiring itself together for creativity.

For another 24 hours.

And now, dear reader, we get to now.

I have written 200 words in the last 2 days. They feel wrong.

I started and stopped a dozen images. None of them feel right. And there are objective quality differences.

I can still draw a bit. If I'm not tired. I'm almost always tired - it's neural fatigue, it comes with surviving a brain damage.

I have somehow brain damaged my way in to better skills.

And it's... It's not a good feeling.

Doing it the first time and watching something take place in front of my eyes I don't recognise was like magic. It was euphoric. Amazing. Exciting.

Realising as time wears on that the ability to do this is intrinsically tied in to the way ones brain handles brain damage and sensory processing issues?

Not a great feeling cats. Not at all.

I find myself staring at a document willing words on tot he page that just aren't there anymore and feeling so frustrated I could scream.

Whose idea was this anyway? Why can't I keep my rewiring?

It's so hard dto explain the feeling of loss.

It's not me who did these things. A version of me, yes. But not the one we are keeping.

The one we keep struggles to hold a narrarive in her head and the narrator's tone took 3 rewritten to preserve for a single paragraph.

I don't want to stop. But how do I keep going? I'm not the author anymore and I've always struggled with adopting the tone of others.

So yeah. That's where I'm at. And I wanna talk about it. Because I don't want to be alone. But I can't escape the feeling I'm being dramatic. Terribly dramatic. And so talking about it is hard. How much is my own spin and perception and how much is real?

Did this really happen?

I think it did. But like every story I tell, I don't know. Memory loss. Cognetive issues.

I just wanna tell stories and draw. But the words hurt and the art makes me tired.

It's frustrating is all.

I hate being lighting geletine.

In case you're wondering what kind of cognative leap happened:

That one is april 4th.

And that one April 28th.

🤷‍♀️

Fucked if I know, really.

#brain damage #star wars #wtf was that #autism #writing #drawing #spd #art #experiances #ramblings #and why not #so tired #and now i have a headache #i have no idea why Im even writing this #weirdly obsessive brain #just brain stuff #neurology #neurodivergent #brain damage is fucked up #that time i was brain damaged and joined a fandom #its not a bad fandom. im just confused. #i dont get tags #lightning geletine #i miss me

[downwiththeficness]

In the Blood-Part Seven

Pairing: Brasa/Female OC

Word Count: ~3,000

Warnings: None

Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

Part Eight Part Nine  Part Ten  Part Eleven Part Twelve

It took about two months of research to find the artifact.  While there wasn’t a shortage of books bound in flesh in the rare antiquities world, there was only one bound in the skin of a culebra.  She tracked it down to a veritable recluse a few towns over and had spent the better part of the last eight weeks trying to get inside his house.

Lilah rubbed at her eyes until she saw spots, drawing on the last reserves of her patience as she read through another disappointing report.  She leaned back in her seat and stared at the ceiling, wondering if she should just drive out there and deal with it, herself.  Javier had insisted that she shouldn’t, that she was needed here, but the team he’d hired was striking out left and right.  The hermit couldn’t be bought, he couldn’t be threatened, and his security system was top of the line—an uncrackable safe, she’d been assured by experts.

And, Brasa was MIA.  Lilah leaned on her elbows.  Since that night in the hotel, she hadn’t seen him, but she’d feel him now and again.  Pressing a palm to her stomach, a breath across her collarbones, heat radiating from beside or behind her.  She wanted to talk to him, wanted to ask him more about the world she was suddenly immersed in.  Lilah had read so much about culebras, mostly from books Javier sent her, but nothing about Xibalba.  Correction: Little about Xibalba.  The only thing that the books seemed to say was that it was like hell, only worse.

Surreptitiously, she’d skimmed the pages for information about a queen, and for Brasa’s name. There was next to nothing.  The going theory was that Xibalban rulers were cruel, blood soaked tyrants who killed at will.  Lilah spent a lot of time trying to reconcile the soft touch of Brasa to the violence in the books. She tried, and failed. Lilah needed more information.

Still, the job was there, every day. More excuses from the team, no book.  Lilah looked up the directions to the hermit’s house, just in case.

This morning was an anomaly.  A report came in that told her the hermit had a son.  The hermit had a son that liked to gamble.  She smiled as she read it, knowing that they could work the son to get inside and get the book.  Easy.

Lilah pulled the contact information for his favorite haunt on her phone and dialed the number.  She stood and paced while she waited for the other side to pick up.  She hadn’t bothered to make the bed, knowing the housekeeping staff would take care of it later.  She also hadn’t bothered to unpack.  Though she’d been in this room nearly the entire time, she kept her suitcase packed and ready to go when she wasn’t actively using anything inside.  Every night, she stowed away her laptop and other essentials.  Just in case.

The line picked up, “Hello?”

“Yes, is this Mr. Pickerelle?”

A pause, “Who is this?”

Lilah sat on the bed, and put on her most professional voice, “I represent a loan operation and we specialize in—“

“Not interested,” he cut her off, voice brooking no argument.

Lilah tsked, “I think you are. I’d like to buy one of your debts.”

While she went over the details and got his account information to transfer the money, Lilah leaned over the bed and pulled the complementary notepad from the drawer of the side table.  She wrote the numbers down, smiling at the first real progress in weeks.

“Tell me, what do you want with this guy?”

Lilah laughed, “Nothing good, I assure you.”

He launched into an anecdote about squeezing his first victim for money, and Lilah rolled her eyes, laying back on the pillow.  Really, she should end the call and hang up, but information was information.  She might need it later.  

Just when she thought he might pull the story to an end, he went off on a tangent, and she slapped a hand to her forehead in boredom. She debated interrupting him, when a warm weight settled on her thighs.  Lilah glanced down and saw nothing, but the heat was familiar. Absently, she reached down, hoping to find something solid.  Her hand met only air.

Frustrated, she turned her attention to the call and found her opening to end it, pressing her thumb to the screen with a little more force than necessary.  She tossed the phone to the side and looked up at the  ceiling.

“What are you doing?”

Lilah didn’t know if saying out loud would transmit the message to him, but she said it anyways.  The warmth dissipated after a moment and she clenched her jaw, refusing to feel bad about it.  She had a new lead that needed to be explored. It was time to take that on.

Lilah spent about three hours figuring out details over email and then decided that she was going to do it, herself.   The guy was easy to hunt down, given that he had no idea he was being followed. People were creatures of habit, whether they admitted it, or not. This guy was no exception.  He frequented the same bar at least twice a week and drove a yellow Mustang.  Convenient.

Lilah didn’t do much shopping, but she wasn’t going to get into this bar without wearing something nicer than jeans and a hoodie.  She bought a tight fitting navy dress and maroon heels, curled her hair, and put on the only piece of jewelry she owned—a gold linked chain that fell enticingly into her cleavage.

The bar wasn’t so much a bar as it was a club.  Lots of blue laser lights, music with a thumping base, and dark.  Lilah could work with dark.  She stepped to the edge of the dance floor, looking for her mark.  It was early, and it was possible that he hadn’t arrived yet.  She craned her neck, looking over the crowd.  Not here, not yet.

Lilah turned to the bar, thinking that she might look more at home with a drink her hand, and felt a wave of dizziness.  The air turned hot and the music transitioned to something slower. It vibrated in her chest, forcing her to turn around in search of someone else.  She wasn’t in the bar anymore. She wasn’t really sure where she was.

To her right, there was a seating area that was sparsely filled, everyone’s attention on the stage to her left.  She looked, too, jaw dropping as she observed a burlesque show mid-performance.  The woman was beautiful—beautiful and really, really flexible.  Lilah turned her head as she pulled her leg back and around so that it bent gracefully over her head.  

Feeling a sympathetic ache in her thighs, she glanced around the rest of the room, looking for something to orient herself.  She recognized no one, and it seemed that they didn’t recognize her, either.   The few pairs of eyes that she met took note and looked away, far more interested in the show.  Lilah was grateful, less interest meant less possibility for questions that she definitely didn’t have the answer to.

She almost went to the bar, but an area lit up in red caught her eye.  Focusing, she took a few steps forward, edging around a high table to get a closer look.  There was evidently a meeting in progress, several men discussing something passionately.  One man I particular snagged and held her attention.

“Brasa,” she breathed, barely able to help herself. After so long, seeing him felt like coming up for air after laying at the bottom of a pool until her lungs burned.

As if he’d heard her, his head snapped up, eyes finding her across the room. He didn’t exactly look shocked to see her, but his brows rose in question.  Saying something to the others, he pressed his hands to the table and rose. Lilah watched him stride over to her determinedly, pace quick but not rushed. She didn’t miss the way people moved out of his way, hurriedly stepping to the side.  Lilah smirked when she noticed he wasn’t wearing all black this time, opting for a deep green long sleeve shirt alongside his usual black gloves and slacks.

“What are you doing here?” He asked as he reached her, his hands already rising to her shoulders in order to draw her close. She went willingly, too glad to feel his warmth again.

Lilah’s brows lifted, “You’re not happy to see me?”

He smiled, “Of course I am.” Then, “Come with me.”

Brasa took her by the hand, leading her deeper into the room, past an ‘employees only’ sign, and through another set of heavy double doors that looked as if they were made of metal. The hallway opened up to a massive room with a single cement walkway through the middle, dissecting a large pool.  On the far end was a desk and several chairs. The light, as in the club, was a dim red that seemed to come from the ceiling, though there were no discernable fixtures.

Lilah took in the room, slowing a bit, “Is this your office?”

He stopped and looked back at her, brows together in confusion, “Yes, it is.”

She continued gazing around appreciatively, “Nice digs.”

His head tilted to the side a little, one side of his mouth lifting, “Is that good?”

“Yes,” Lilah confirmed with a smile, “Its good.”

Something like relief flashed behind his eyes. He continued to look at her, taking in her dress, her heels, his eyes dark. She found herself blushing under the weight of that gaze, wanting him closer despite her frustration with him.

“Its been a long time,” Lilah prompted gently, wanting an explanation for his absence, but unsure of how to go about getting it..

Looking contrite, Brasa grasped her hips in both hands and dropped his gaze to the ground, “I know. There have been complications.”

She lifted one brow, “What complications?”

He released a breath borne out of long contained agitation, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on her body, “A faction of my people have been attempting to run a coup.  I have spent nearly every waking moment working to keep the peace.”

Lilah couldn’t help the little bit of ire that remained, though the explanation was pretty fucking good, “You could have said something.  I started to think that it was all up here.”

She motioned to her head, attempting to convey the paranoia that had crept into her mind with every passing day that she didn’t see him.  Passing touches only fueled the doubt, and Lilah did not like to doubt herself.

Brasa gathered her to his chest, resting his chin on her head affectionately, “Please accept my apologies.”

Reluctantly, she wrapped her arms around him, inhaling his scent and feeling tension she didn’t know she had fall away. Lilah wanted to hold onto it, but it slipped from her like water—which didn’t make any sense, because holding a grudge was a skill that she definitely had in spades.

“What is this? Please, explain it to me.” She didn’t conceal the edge of panic in her voice, not caring what that made her look like to anyone who cared to look.

He pulled away, catching her eye. It took real work to keep from falling deep into his gaze, the soft brown barely illuminated by the red light that seemed ubiquitous in this place. Darkness and shadow passed over and through him, making themselves at home.

Brasa swallowed and his glance shifted to the side a bit.  Lilah forced herself to remain silent. He’d been open with her in the past when she asked him direct questions, she would give him that opportunity now.

“It thought it was impossible. I thought that demons couldn’t have—weren’t made for…”

She leaned in, resting her hands on his biceps, “For?”

“You,” he finished, the word issued with a little force.  “I thought I would never have you. But, when I felt you in the healing pools, it just all fell into place.”

If anything, she was more confused now than she had been half a minute previous.  She tried to hold his gaze, but he was still looking to the side. Lilah tried to force a little urgency into her next sentence. She needed to know.

“You’ve got to be little more specific.”

Brasa shifted on his feet, fixing her with an unblinking gaze, his jaw clenching. He stilled unnaturally, breaths coming in a little faster. Leaning down, he pressed his nose to the sensitive place behind her ear, inhaling, “Fuck, you smell good.”

Lilah couldn’t help the little whimper that she made when his mouth opened and he tongued along that little bit of skin.  She wobbled a little in her heels, arching to give him more access. Despite the tangent, she liked the electric feeling of skin meeting skin, her body welcoming every touch.

“You still,” she asserted on the tail end of a moan, “Haven’t answered my question.”

Brasa laughed against her skin, kissing along her jaw until he met her mouth, where gave her the quickest, lightest little peck. Lilah tried to follow him when he pulled away, earning herself another soft chuckle.

“I haven’t,” he agreed, “And I did agree to answer your questions.”

“You did.”

Though he leaned back so that he could look at her, he kept his hold firm.  She couldn’t have stepped away, if she wanted to—not that she particularly wanted to. Despite her effort to keep focused on their conversation, Lilah couldn’t quite tamp down the urge to run her hands up his arms and over his shoulders, her thumbs resting on either side of his collar. Fiddling with the fabric kept her from using it as leverage to pull him down for a deeper kiss. She’d been way too long without him and didn’t know when she’d get the opportunity again.

Clearing his throat, Brasa attempted to start again, “Do you remember when I told you of the blood bond I had to my queen?”  When she nodded, he continued, “This is similar—deeper.”

“Deeper how?”

“You are mine and I am yours,” he said, the words coming out in a rhythm that hinted at ritual.

Lilah frowned, “Are you talking about soul mates?”

He smirked, “Blood is the conduit of the soul.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Brasa rolled his eyes, “I doubt its meant to. But, this is real.  Every time I touch you,” he cupped her face, “Kiss you,” he pressed his lips to hers, “Catch your fucking mouthwatering scent.  It. Is. Real.”

They stood there for a while, foreheads touching, sharing breaths.  Lilah was speechless, her brain working to try to rearrange her whole world around a man who seemed to eclipse everything around her. After several false starts, she just stopped trying.

“Green looks good on you,” she murmured, tugging a bit on his collar.

His chin lowered and he traced two fingers from her chin, down her neck, to the edge of her dress, where he lingered.

“When I saw you tonight, I thought it was another dream to torment me.”

Surprised, Lilah asked, “You dream about me.”

“Constantly,” he affirmed, “You’ve wrecked my concentration.”

Lilah thought he was certainly doing a hell of a job wrecking her concentration. Her brain reminded her none too gently that she was supposed to be doing a job.  Her body was calmly telling her brain to shut the hell up so that she could enjoy this. She rose up a bit in her heels and kissed him, ending the feud entirely.

He groaned into it, and wrapped both arms around her, a move that seemed almost reflexive.  Lilah couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Every part of her felt over sensitive and raw, achy. She pressed her thighs together to try to put a little pressure where she most needed it. The motion brought into sharp focus the fact that she was teetering on the edge of knife. Just a little push would send her to her knees.

A loud banging on the heavy doors sounded, and Lilah gasped with the sudden intrusion.  Brasa’s arms remained locked around her.  He veered off to the side, mouthing down her neck and to the swell of her breasts.  Lilah’s moan was loud even to her ears when his tongue snaked out to lick a hot stripe between them.

The knock sounded again, this time more urgent.

“My lord!” Someone yelled from the other side.

A vicious growl rumbled out of Brasa.  It started low and built to one long, deadly warning. Lilah shivered, though she couldn’t exactly put her finger on why. The edges of the room began to blur and she could feel the tell tale wooziness.

Straightening, Brasa breathed deeply, his eyes closed. Lilah smiled at the concerted effort he was making to calm himself. It gratified her to know that she wasn’t the only one wanting more.

“Go take care of that,” she whispered, “I have a job I need to get to, anyways.”

Brasa’s eyes opened and she could see the determination in them, “We’re not done.” He gripped her chin between his thumb and the curve of his forefinger, “I found you.”

A little thrill went through her at the implication that she’d see him outside of their shared visions, “We’ll finish this later, then.”

Reluctantly, he let her go, taking a step away. Her mouth went dry as she watched him adjust the erection straining against his slacks. A not so little part of her wanted to reach out and palm it, feel its shape in her hand.

The knocking continued and he took a long, final glance at her before turning and heading for the door.  Lilah closed her eyes as her equilibrium shifted, and then she was back in the bar she’d started out in.  And, to her good fortune, her target had arrived.

#In the Blood #from dusk til dawn #from dusk til dawn: the series #fdtd #maurice compte