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animebw · 5 months

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Short Reflection: Fall 2023 Anime

Is it fair to call 2023 a disappointing year for anime? Maybe it's just that 2021 and 2022 were both so above and beyond that coming back down to normalcy from that peak feels like a letdown. But man, between a mostly uninspiring winter lineup and summer being possibly the single worst anime season since seasonal watching started being a thing, there's been plenty to complain about. Thankfully, there's been plenty to appreciate as well, and while this fall season hasn't been truly transcendent, it's at least left us with a slew of worthwhile anime to close the year out. So let's sift through the rubble and rank all the shows I finished to see which ones ended as true must-watches, which are still worth a look, and which you can skip without missing anything.

Firefighter Daigo (1st Half): 4/10

So, remember Space Brothers? Remember how wonderfully that show balanced naturalistic character building with the excitement and beauty of exploring a high-stakes environment like space? Have you been looking for another show to hit that same sweet spot of grounded maturity and tangible whimsy that makes your childhood dream job feel more achievable than ever? Well... guess you better keep looking, because Firefighter Daigo is not that. There's some beautifully nail-biting tension to the rescue sequences themselves, expertly stacking one thing after another going wrong as our protagonists are forced to think on their feet to save lives under the most pressure imaginable. But the characters are utterly bland, the production is boring on a near-inconceivable level (man, remember when this guy directed a single good-looking episode of To Your Eternity and completely failed to live up to that potential ever again?), it wastes over three minutes each episode on recap footage, and it take such a bizarre, condescending attitude toward its one female character that the whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. It's an overly cheesy puppet show playing at being a real story, and I will not be sticking around to see if its second cours improves in any way.

Stardust Telepath: 4.5/10

Man, I'm frustrated I didn't like this one more. I always appreciate Cute Girls anime that put this much polish and energy into their adaptation, and the concept of socially awkward Umika Konohoshi wishing she could escape this planet to make friends among the stars, only to find her place on earth on her journey to reach there, has all the makings of a coming-of-age masterpiece. Sadly, it's done in by the simplest of failures: melodrama overdose. All the attempts at heartstring-pulling are so overbearing and browbeating that every moment that tries to drag tears from your eyes just leaves you exasperated instead. It completely lacks confidence in its ability to touch your emotions on the quality of its writing alone, so it smothers you in sappy speeches and ear-bleeding Feel Sad Music until you feel like you're choking on the stuff. Not even the top-shelf yuribaiting between the two leads can wipe the frustration away, and I'm about the easiest mark for that kind of stuff as you can imagine. Someone get this forehead-touch almost-kiss telepathy into a better show immediately!

I'm in Love with the Villainess: 4.5/10

I honestly feel back about being so down on I'm in Love With the Villainess. Lord knows I'm always complaining we need more isekai with an actual point to make, and an unapologetically queer take on the shoujo villainess trope that actually has something to say about the lesbian experience amidst the romantic goofery certainly fits that bill. Except, well... I already watched this show when it was called MagiRevo. And when it was called Mage and Demon Queen. And in a world where those two stories basically perfected the "lesbian disaster courts a closed-off tsundere" isekai-adjacent fantasy yarn, there's nothing this show can offer that hasn't already been done so much better. Well, okay, the conversation in episode 3 exploring the pushy protagonist's complex self-loathing relationship with her own queerness was certainly unique, but you end up spending the rest of the show waiting in vain for it to do something that interesting ever again, only to be met with overly tropey writing, cliches, and unexpected swerves into problematic WTF territory instead. There are good ideas here buried here, but it needed a better studio to refine it to the point it needed to be, and it got stuck with Platinum Vision instead. What a shame.

Uma Musume Season 3: 4.5/10

At this point I have to wonder if even Uma Musume is getting tired of its own shtick. It's been three seasons and an OVA of the most melodramatic sports anime histrionics imaginable, and all that shouting and wailing has to get exhausting after a while. And while season 3 is still every bit as overblown and overbearing as the franchise has always been, it also feels like it's poking fun at itself for taking this nonsense so damn seriously. Two characters have a sappy emotional heart-to-heart while furiously paddling a paddleboat. Former protagonist and resident crybaby Special Week's tearful speeches are basically ignored by everyone else in the cast as they keep talking over her and tuning her out. The running gag of the Overly Serious Race Commenters get upstaged by a pair of even older, more seasoned Overly Serious Race Commenters. Hell, even the fact we only get a single idol performance at the very end seems to hint at just how weary this story's become of its own conceit. Uma Musume has always been an overthought, overdesigned mess of a show, so bloated on anime nonsense and ill-matched tropes that it rarely manages to capture anything real amidst the corporate plasticness of it all. But I'm not gonna lie, there's something equally hilarious and depressing about seeing it finally start to admit its own pointlessness.

Ron Kamonohashi's Forbidden Deductions: 5/10

How good does a show have to be at character banter to make up for a failure of writing in pretty much every other respect? That's the question Ron Kamonohashi's Forbidden Deductions seems willed into existence to answer. As a snappy buddy-cop comedy between an eccentric genius detective and his beleaguered straight-man sidekick, it's every bit the equal of 2011's Sherlock. As an actual mystery thriller... it is also, sadly, every bit the equal of 2011's Sherlock. I could watch the titular Ron fail upwards through his case-solving conundrums dragging the hapless rookie detective Toto with him all day. Their chemistry is infectious. It's just a shame the actual detective work is so hacky and contrived, cheap solutions to mostly dull mysteries that never give you that "Aha!" moment of seeing the puzzle pieces come together. And the overarching plot involving prestigious detective academies, shadowy criminal syndicates, and bizarre involuntary hypnosis powers feels like it purposefully ignores every opportunity to explore any ideas deeper than basic shonen moralizing. I might still pop back in for season 2 to enjoy more wacky hijinks between the leads, but if you're looking for something to scratch your mystery itch, give this one a pass.

Arknights: Perish in Frost: 5/10

Now that's more like it! Sort of. Almost. Okay, look, for the first half and change of its run, the second season of Arknights manages to be every bit the improvement on the first season I was hoping for. It streamlines the plot to keep a constant, propulsive forward momentum, pushing its characters forward and keeping the narrative lens focused so it can do justice to all its major players. And it pushes all those disparate factions on a collision course with each other that leads to constant, meaningful consequences and character building, aided by a production that hits its high water marks far more consistently than season 1. It feels like Arknights has shaken off the bloat and become the best possible version of itself, a dark action season with some genuine muscle behind it... at least until we enter the final stretch and the pacing goes absolutely out of control, speeding into a brick wall so fast and recklessly that you're barely able to understand what the fuck just happened by the time it's over. It's shockingly rushed, to the point you feel like you're watching someone recite the Wiki at you while skipping over all the connective tissue that would make these plot points make sense. It's a frustrating end to a season that came so close to being good, and I can only hope any future installments never make that mistake again.

Undead Unluck (1st Half): 5/10

Undead Unluck is host to one of the single most bonkers sci-fi settings I've ever seen, anime or otherwise. From what starts feeling like just our world with some supernatural freaks and weirdos causing havoc, it gradually reveals itself to be something more akin to a nightmarish cosmic RPG in the hands of a mad god, where none of the rules of our world can be taken for granted and reality is only ever a hair's breadth away from turning on its head. It's a deliriously creative premise to build a shonen battle manga out of, and I can't wait to see what other insanity the writers can milk out of this setup. Which is good, because otherwise, hooooooooo boy this one does not get off on a good foot. What fucking genius decided the main duo's dynamic should be built around the guy molesting the girl to make her powers activate? In what universe was building a love story out of that sexual harassment a good idea? I'm sorry, but when you've mistaken a swaggering half-naked dude-bro casually trying to outright assault his partner as cute hot-and-cold couple banter, you have officially lost the plot. Can somebody break into Shonen Jump studios and teach this company how to write a proper romance one of these days? Deku and Uraraka can't carry the whole genre on their back, guys!

Migi and Dali: 5.5/10

Is Migi and Dali a good show? I honestly don't think I could tell you. What it is, is utterly bizarre in everything in does, yet somehow kind of makes it all work? It's a Diamond-is-Unbrekable-esque off-kilter small town murder mystery, with a pair of identical twins pretending to be one kid to fool their new adoptive parents as they search for the person responsible for killing their mother years ago. The whole thing plays like a pitch-black parody of stereotypical suburban life, finding the cracks in the facade of normalcy and ripping them open until your only options are to laugh wildly or cringe wildly at the resulting desecration. And you will do plenty of both all throughout as it ping-pongs from accidental twincest to toddler play to to not-so-garden-variety abuse to Excessive English and basically everything in between. If there's an aspect of your stereotypical boring, domestic family experience that Migi and Dali can twist into a grotesque mockery of itself, it'll do just that and then some. The unfortunate side effect, though, is that it can be hard to tell where the line lies between intentional commentary and just being gross and uncomfortable for its own sake. And when that threatens to veer into some really misogynistic territory in the final act, it becomes even harder to stomach. Still, I can safely say I've never seen anything quite like this show, and considering the manga's author tragically passed away recently, you can't help but respect the people making it for honoring her memory this way.

Shy: 5.5/10

Shy is one of the rare manga I've read before the anime came out, inspired by a friend who came across it at random and it became their favorite manga of all time after just eleven chapters. I wasn't quite as swept away, and I don't think it's maintained the level of quality its first couple arcs had, but man, there's something special about this one. Which is why I am personally begging you not to watch the anime and go straight to the manga, because this adaptation really doesn't do justice to how electrifying and soul-enriching the manga can be. Masaomi Ando's a good director, but his penchant for paneling and stylistic insert shots, an aesthetic which works wonders on heavily atmospheric mood pieces like Toiled-Bound Hanako-kun and Scum's Wish, is completely at odds with the needs of a straightforward superhero battle series. The manga's artwork has this wonderfully sketchy, explosive quality that makes every action panel feel like a rush of cascading moments; here, every action scene quickly descends into a mess of moving jpegs and awkwardly placed insert frames that cripples its ability to wow you. There's enough of the manga's triumphant spirit preserved that it still shakes out decently- the orphanage arc that closes out the first season is wonderful enough to survive any imperfections from page to screen- but if the story of Teru's struggles and self-actualization touched you at all, you owe it to yourself to check out the source material to experience this story in its best form.

The 100 Girlfriends Who Really Really Really Really Really Love You: 6/10

Listen, you know me. You know how much I despise the harem genre. There's barely a single example of the form I consider anything above mediocre slop. So how did a show with this premise manage to get into my good graces? By understanding one simple fact that so few harem anime seem to realize: if you want something this inherently stupid to work? Embrace the fucking stupidity. Throw caution and common sense and good taste to the wind and just go absolutely bugnuts. Why settle for a scant five or six barely interchangeable waifu bait when you can have one hundred distinct and memorable personalities? Why waste time on cheap melodrama that nobody cares about when there are fourth walls to break and scenarios to push far beyond their logical extremes? 100 Girlfriends knows that the only proper form for this genre is sheer anarchy, going so far over-the-top with its jokes and setups that it's impossible not to get swept up in the sheer audacity of it all. And somehow, by imbuing this madcap nonsense with just a drop of sincerity, it actually makes you care about Best Boy Aijou Rentarou and his ever-growing posse of romantic partners as a strangely healthy polyamorous support system for each other. It's far from flawless and good lord is it problematic from top to bottom, but if you can vibe to its particular brand of earnestly empathetic chaos, it's an experience like none other.

Overtake: 6.5/10

Overtake is the most frustrating kind of anime: a really good show that's constantly threatening- but never fully succeeds- at being great. It has all the pieces you could want! A masterful production from veteran directer Ei Aoki that brings the world of Formula 4 racing to life with tactile, lived-in lushness. Characters who breathe far beyond the confines of the screen, rich with inner life and complex relationships where you come to love the rivals just as much as the scrappy underdog protagonists. A story that tackles genuinely moving and mature ideas as it explores what it means to give your all to something, even when the risks may be too horrifying to reckon with. It's as perfectly positioned for greatness as you could ask from a sports anime... and yet it never quite takes off the way you want it to. It's just missing that little extra something to push it over the edge, but for the life of me, I can't figure out what that might be. It's still absolutely worth a look, but as much as I liked it, I'm gonna be stewing over why I didn't love it for a while.

The Ancient Magus Bride Season 2 Part 2: 6.5/10

Alright, that's more what I was hoping for. After a frustratingly slow and plodding first half, the back half The Ancient Magus Bride's second season finally starts paying off all that torturous setup and reminding us that when it wants to, nothing goes harder than Chise's tale of trauma, abuse and recovery, especially now that she's the guiding light for another girl crawling out of pit much like the one she was once trapped in. It's genuinely powerful watching her try to help Philomena out from under a painfully familiar burden, struggling save someone like her while she's still struggling with the scars her own darkness has left on her. And whenever it's focused on that, it's as good as The Ancient Magus Bride has ever been. It's just a shame that whenever all that potent character drama gives way to fae-on-fae magical showdowns, it's some of the ugliest, clunkiest, most poorly staged action in all of fall's lineup. It utterly fails to capture the sense of eldritch awe and wonder this series' magic invokes, leaving it feeling like a shell of itself even when everything else is operating at full capacity. Hopefully, future seasons will take the time they need to bring that aspect up to par, because a series this steeped in the haunting grandeur of its aesthetic cannot afford to cut corners on that aesthetic.

Spy x Family Season 2: 7.5/10

Do my eyes deceive me? A Yor-centric arc? This show finally gives one of its nominal protagonists a turn in the spotlight after ages of underuse with a big, lengthy, consequential story that lets her shine like never before? It's like Christmas came early. I've been up and down about Spy x Family over the course of its run, but the cruise ship arc that dominates this season is everything great about this show operating at the top of its potential, and god damn is it marvelous to watch unfold. If only it was this good on a consistent basis, it would be an easy shoe-in for one of the greatest anime of the decade. But you know what? As long as it keeps delivering highlights like this, I've got nothing to complain about. At this point, Spy x Family has comfortably settled into being a reliably entertaining action-heavy family sitcom with lovable characters and occasional moments of greatness, and if that's all it ultimately amounts to, well, there are far worse things to be. Just please, for the love of god, keep Yuri off screen as much as possible.

Scott Pilgrim Takes Off: 8/10

So cards on the table: the live action Scott Pilgrim vs the World movie is one of my favorite films of all time. It's such a perfect explosion of geeky awesomeness from one of our greatest living directors, managing to push the medium of live action closer to anime than it ever was before or has been since. So the prospect of seeing the original comic actually made into an anime was very exciting to me. How cool would it be to finally see the source material that inspired this movie brought to life, never mind with Science Goddamn Saru pushing the animation into overdrive? But much to my shock- and eventual delight- Scott Pilgrim Takes Off had much more exciting things in mind than simply slapping a decades-old comic series on screen. Instead, it's something closer to an Evangelion-style Rebuild, taking a sharp left and remixing the story and characters with the perspective of a more mature creator, reckoning with his successes and failures alike as he re-assesses the story he was trying to tell and what parts of it still hold value today. It's Scott Pilgrim as told by someone who's outgrown the transient young adulthood central to the narrative, taking stock of his past from an older, wiser perspective and making amends where he fell short before. And as much as I might have liked a straightforward adaptation, what I got instead was so exciting and fresh that I can't complain. If only every anime was this willing to get creative with its source material.

The Apothecary Diaries (1st Half): 8.5/10

Say a prayer and set off some fireworks, folks: the shoujosei renaissance is here! After a years-long drought, the anime industry is finally remembering that stories targeted at women and girls are also worthy of high-profile prestige adaptations instead of settling for barely animated table scraps. And of all the breakout hits we've had this past year and change, none have slapped quite as hard as The Apothecary Diaries, a historical Chinese mystery drama that marries fascinating courtly intrigue with a bitterly honesty exploration of how the lowest rungs of society- women and poor people especially- are systemically crushed by the structures that govern their world. As hilarious as this show can be, it's also unnervingly frank about the darkness the Emperor's courtesans and their servants must reckon with as pawns in a patriarchal society. And it drives that message home with a truly wonderful protagonist in Maomao, a girl who just wants to keep her head down and get through life without drawing unwanted attention from the forces that could easily squash her like a bug, but has too strong a moral compass to look the other way when she sees the people around her suffering from those same injustices. It's the story of a powerless person using all the tools at her disposal to keep the world's cruelty at bay, and watching her struggle to win what small victories she's capable of against such an overwhelming power structure makes for some of the most gripping television I've watched in quite a long time. And if the second cours is even half as good as good, it will still earn its place among the years' best.

Frieren: Beyond Journey's End (1st Cours): 9/10

The big fantasy adventure is over. The demon king is dead, the world is at peace, and the heroes who defeated him slowly grow old and die in the new age they ushered in. All, that is, except Frieren, a near-immortal elf with such a long lifespan that a human's life is a mere drop in the ocean for her. But with the passing of her former party's leader, she realizes just how much the short time she spent on that adventure have affected her. Ten years- a mere millisecond in the life of an elf- has changed the way she sees the world more profoundly than she ever could have dreamed. So she sets out on a journey to retrace the steps of that adventure, to reconnect with her memories of the old friends she's only now realizing she wished she got to know better before it was too late. Along the way she picks up a couple of those friends' young disciples to join her party, walking reminders of the past she left behind and the future that awaits her. And through their travels, she slowly begins to understand humanity and her place within it... and all the experiences she will carry with her long after they've faded into mere memory.

I'll admit, there are times I like being an anime hipster. There's something inherently indulgent, if not exactly healthy, of feeling superior to a mass-market piece of entertainment that you're too Smart and Intellectual to be fooled by. But sometimes, you just gotta call a spade a spade. Sometimes, the weeb consensus gets it really, really right. Yes, Frieren: Beyond Journey's End is every bit as self-evidently spectacular as everyone says it is, so on-its-face magical it's almost kind of insulting. It's a quiet, meditative fantasy exploration of grief, longing, the passage of time, and what it truly means to live a fulfilling life when everything you cherish within it must one day fade into nothing. It's poignant and intimate on a level that's hard to describe, yet equally grand and majestic whenever it wishes. It's also one of the funniest goddamn shows I've watched in a while, with jokes that hit from unexpected, awkward angles that left me rolling on the floor. If his work on Bocchi the Rock hadn't already proven it, this cements Keichirou Saitou as one of our greatest modern anime directors, a master of melding tones and moods and imbuing every shot with vibrant inner life. It's almost disappointing whenever it leans into action; as spectacularly animated as its battles are, it's those quiet moments of grace and warmth that truly make this show something remarkable. Bottom line, Frieren is a runaway leader for 2023's best TV anime, a show we'll be talking about for decades to come. I can't think of a better high note to start 2024 on.

Dropped:

Shield Hero Season 3 (4 Episodes)

My Daughter Left the Nest and Returned an S-Rank Adventurer (3 Episodes)

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izukuwus · 1 year

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Edible Arrangements 32

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A/N: this isn't late it's still sunday don't look at me I was debating whether or not to put a baby in the cake I'm baking don't LOOK at me

short chapter today, but unrelated oneshot coming next weekend! I ended up wanting to polish it before posting.

Chapter Summary: Life isn't just the romance genre.

Warnings: mild angst, murder talk, serial killer talk

Word count: ~2400

“P-pardon if this is a weird question, Detective, but do you have some kind of truth-detection quirk, by chance?”

Damn. Izuku’s gone in for the kill. You sit nervously on the far armchair, still cradling Sbeve to keep him from flinging anyone’s drinks or any mischief of the sort. He’s content to stay there, which is a blessing in itself.

The detective raises his eyebrows. “I do, as a matter of fact. How did you…”

He’s telling the truth.

Fucking hell, he’s telling the truth.

You’re suddenly tense as all hell, wondering how best to approach any word that might leave your mouth. You’ve done nothing wrong, to your knowledge it’s not like you murdered the girl, and you’re tense all the same.

Does everyone feel like this around you all of the time?

“O-oh, I just know someone with a similar quirk! You both do the same thing where you just kind of visibly accept stuff people say without worrying too much about it. I know I can be hard to believe sometimes because I have a bit of a nervous stutter, so it’s actually reassuring to know that you don’t think I’m lying!”

Well, Izuku sure feels the pressure.

“Especially about the tenancy thing,” you add with a sigh. “I agreed to rent the room from him before either of us realized he was a professor at my school. You would not believe the shit my best friend gives me about it.”

Detective Normal laughs. “Well, I believe it, if it’s any consolation. I’ll admit it looked a bit strange to me, all things considered. I’m Detective Tsukauchi, [name], in case you missed it, and this is my partner Sansa. I’ve just got a few questions for the two of you, if you’re willing to answer them.”

You nod, thumbing at Sbeve’s ears to soothe your nerves. “Yes, of course! You’re, um… You’re here about Momo, right…?”

He nods. “I’m afraid so. But let’s not worry about jumping into that right away—are you an Ossenfelder student, Mx. [name]?”

You nod. You can’t help but run your brain over exact activation requirements for his quirk. His partner is keeping quiet—does it only work on questions he directly asks, perhaps?

He hums. You’re watching his face carefully—his eyes narrow just slightly.

You have to be speaking, then, you’re guessing. Verbal responses are necessary.

“What’s your major, then?”

“Quirk studies and theory,” you parrot automatically. “I wanted to go for something more practical at first, like business, but, well, you know. I just didn’t like it.”

There. The subtlest wince. How you’ll know he senses your lie.

“I have to admit, I do believe that the pair of you are just roommates, but it is interesting that you and Dr. Midoriya are living together and he teaches courses in your major.”

You blink slowly. Tilt your head.

“…he does?”

“Sometimes!” Izuku pipes up. “Mostly senior-level stuff. They kind of have me fill in wherever there’s gaps. I was going to bring it up if I actually ended up teaching another Quirk Theory course while you were still living with me, since it’d be really questionable if you ended up in my class.”

(Tsukauchi writes something down.)

“Well, that answers a few questions,” he jokes. “How did you end up living together?”

You sigh, long and tired. “I was desperate. Got fired, got evicted, wasn’t getting work, tuition payments were getting ever closer. Had a very public panic attack in a bookstore cafe, and Izuku ended up comforting me and offering to let me rent a room from him. We didn’t figure out until my boxes were already in his driveway that he taught at Ossenfelder and I went there, but I really haven’t had any better options in the meantime, and we make great roommates, so I haven’t been looking. Rent’s basically nothing, and I earn it back by keeping the place clean and making Izuku’s house not feel so completely empty.”

He nods. He doesn’t ask where you get the money to pay him with, which is fantastic, because you’re not sure “blood money” would go over well with the pretense of a joke being thrown out the window. “I see. So, less about you, and more about what brought us here today: Did you know Momo Yaoyorozu?”

You go carefully, silently still.

You knew, of course, that they would ask. That's why they came here to begin with, it would be stupid to assume that they wouldn't, but the directness, the frankness of it has you feeling hollow all over again.

And it's stupid! Because you didn't know her well enough for this! But this is what's happening all the same, and so you sigh and snuggle Sbeve a little bit before you answer. "Um, yeah. I did. But not all that well. We had a class together last spring, kind of. Or, uh, she TA'd one of my classes. We weren't particularly close, but she was really understanding about my, uh, ongoing mental health issues. I'm... guessing that if you guys are going around asking questions about her, then it wasn't, like, a car wreck that did it."

The cat man, Sansa, grimaces. "Not exactly, no. But we aren't really at liberty to discuss details."

"But—" You suck in a deep breath through your teeth. You think you know how to do this.

Izuku is watching you with mild alarm as you appear to deliberate your next words, when really, you're realizing something.

This is familiar.

It slips, just a little bit, against your brain, one of those things that must not be important, but—

"Please. I just, two years ago on campus I was attacked? By a girl posing as my roommate? And I don't, I don't think they ever caught her, just identified her as a serial killer, and then I never heard anything back?" The tears come unbidden.

Crying on command. Fucking score.

"I just... if she was killed by the same person, because that girl got away because I didn't notice I was living with a serial killer for months, I don't—I don't—"

Tsukauchi shares a look with Sansa. Tsukauchi nods.

Additional score for a near-death experience being used as fuel to pry information out of the cops.

"I actually remember your case," Tsukauchi says. "I didn't recognize you at first, I apologize. Have you been well?"

A short, wet laugh. "I live with a rich college professor who took me in entirely out of pity for me because my entire life has just continued falling apart ever since everything happened with her, and now a girl I know—fuck, knew—"

The pity between them. Izuku, nearly vibrating in his seat with his usual distress at seeing you upset.

You wipe away a tear. “Sorry, sorry. I just… please. I need to know that it’s not… not her.”

Tsukauchi’s lips are pursed tight. You know nothing you said was a lie, so you’re sure he’s thinking, thinking how much to tell you.

“We don’t know enough to say whether or not it’s a related incident yet,” he says finally, the faintest glow to his skin. They have something. “What I can tell you is that several of the circumstances are similar.”

You perform your best recoil. “Y-you think it could be—“

“There’s a possibility. Miss Yaoyorozu was found with stab wounds and strange marks on her body. But listen, that’s all we can tell you, okay? If you see her, or notice anything strange, give us a call.” He slides a card towards you—his number, most likely. Contact information, in case you run into her.

You’re aware of that.

But this has suddenly become very, unbearably, real.

You set Sbeve aside, shivering at the thought of it all. “I, um… I-I need to go, if that’s okay. I don’t think that I can—that I can continue this conversation anymore.”

He considers it, then nods. “Will you be alright, left alone?”

“I’ll be alright long enough.”

It’s not a lie, and so he doesn’t raise any protest. You steal one last look at Izuku before retreating up the stairs, away from the conversation.

When, at last, you’re behind a closed door, you don’t know whether to smile or cry.

You think you might do both.

A knock at the door. It sends vibrations against your head, gentle, where you’ve sat with your back against the door since you closed it.

“[name]?”

Izuku.

You take a shaky breath, crawl away from the door far enough that he can’t hit you when he opens it.

“Are you okay?”

You’re not. You’re exhausted. He has to know that. How, you don’t know, but he has to.

“I’m going to open the door, okay?”

You don’t move. You’re sure the image of you is unflattering when he does open the door, and he jolts and nearly leaps back when he sees you, numbly sitting there, back facing the door because you couldn’t be assed to turn around.

It takes less than half a moment for him to recover, and then he’s sitting on the floor beside you, thigh pressed up against your own. “I see you are not okay,” he says gently. “The police left, so if you need to… I don’t know, break or anything like that, feel free.”

“I was just saying true bullshit to get him to talk,” you mumble, leaning your full body weight against his side. “I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear him say that it had nothing to do with her.”

An arm winds around you as your first tears finally fall. You shrug it off, lay on the floor so instead you’re resting your head on his lap. “I’m not okay,” you say at last. “You’ve been scaring me and she’s dead and that serial killer might be back around or else it might be the one you’re hunting and I still haven’t healed from the last fucked up shit I had to go through and—“

He shushes you gently, a hand coming to comb through your hair. “I never meant to scare you.”

“You’ve done nothing but work on finding that man for two months now. If I wasn’t fairly sure you couldn’t die, I’d be terrified.”

“You know why this is important to me.”

“I do,” you whisper. “But… What are you going to do when he’s gone?”

He smiles. It's weak, doesn't reach his eyes. "I'm not sure that you want the answer to that."

"Izuku. What are you going to do?"

Silence. "You know, we as real people don't know much about actual vampires? They're a relatively new phenomenon, at least where definitive research is concerned, rather than just as a figure in popular culture. We really know almost nothing except the basis—vampires can be created, they drink blood, and they're basically undead and have to be killed specific ways. We don’t even know whether this counts as a quirk or something else entirely."

"Izuku."

"I'm—I'm going somewhere with this. Trust me.”

He really is, so you purse your lips and feel his hold on you tighten. "I've done a lot of scouring. Trying to find whatever shreds of truth I could to understand what the hell I had become. But the thing is just that—we don't know. In some interpretations, once you're a vampire, you're a vampire forever unless some intrepid hunter manages to kill you. In others..." He sighs. Suddenly, his arm around you doesn't feel comforting anymore. The more he speaks, the more the warmth in you curdles. "In other interpretations, lines of vampires can be taken out by destroying the original. If you kill a sire, all of his offspring will die with it. In a lot of them, that's true, actually. Basically most of them outside of the—the romance genre. So really, it’s impossible to tell whether—“

“What are you saying?” The words come out cold.

“I don’t think we’re living in the romance genre, [name].”

You can’t help the way you recoil. “You’re saying that by hunting him, you might…”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take to destroy that man.”

“Izuku, that’s—“ The anxiety rushes your veins, leaving your hands numb as you jerk away. to look at him. To search for any hint of a lie.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the wild rage rears up in you in response.

Because there’s the lie.

“Y-you know you can’t—“

“I know,” he says, defeated. “I can’t lie to you.” A pause. “M-maybe we shouldn’t have this conversation—“

“No. Izuku, you need to—“

“[name]. This isn’t about—it has nothing to do with you. I have been living entirely to see him again, to destroy him for what he’s done, what he continues to do. Longer than you’ve been alive I have been living to kill him. I’m sorry it upsets you. I-I am! I never want to do anything that would put you in distress. But you have to understand that nothing you could say to me is going to stop me from this. He killed my parents. He killed my mom, right in front of me, just for having been there. I've had to slip into the background to watch everyone I had ever known either die or grow unrecognizable, while I stay here, alone, stagnant! I'm not just going to give up on stopping him, on getting m-my—"

"If you really think you're alone, then I have to ask what we're doing here."

He freezes, eyes wide, a veritable deer in headlights. "Y-you know I didn't mean—"

"No. No, you were right. I think... I'm going to go to bed. You go... grade papers, or hack police databases, or whatever it is you've been doing to destroy yourself instead of sleeping."

You stand, brush past him.

"Where are you going?" he asks weakly.

"I left my phone downstairs."

When you come back up, your recording stopped at last, he's gone. Your room is empty. The light is on in his fucking hidden office.

For the first night in ages, you sleep in your own bed. If the pillow is stained with tears when you wake up, that's between you and Sbeve.

Tags: @tooloudarts @sapid-rose @xxangelpridexx @warmchoccymilk @lirinstaalem @izoodles @my-bnha-things @denise-the-death-goddess @themerpenguin @sincerelybubbles @fudobaby @imabootywarrior @chickynn @fuc-kingmonkey @vinumumbra @the-secret-thief @lianatriestosurvive @kc-korra @kiliakit @hay-leeeah @meowkid1000 @mha-baku-todo-deku-kiri @jojo-buttercup @starfishlovingbnha @neomuxuxi @lollawindsay @mrsreina @anime-simps-blog @wwwwyamd @omiwashere @emilytheeggy @subwayslander @thelittle-witch @sparkexplosive @shoutaaizawas @vanilladyfics @stargazerunlimited @luigisdivorcelawyer @chaoticevilbakugo @deeplightgarden @stxrrielle @idonthaveanameideayet @snowymaltese @bnha-babygirl

If your name is in the list but not underlined, I was unable to tag you! If your name is on the list and in bold, this is my second attempt to tag you. You will be removed from the taglist after a third attempt. Please ensure that your blog is set to appear in search results to be able to be tagged on the taglist! If you would like to be added or removed from the taglist, please fill out this form! No hard feelings if you want yourself removed for any reason! <3

#my fics #bnha x reader #mha x reader #midoriya izuku x reader #izuku midoriya x reader #deku x reader #bnha vampire au

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kenjo-arts · 2 years

Note

Hey I wanted to ask on how you deal with extrem motivation loss, especially for art. Sadly I am so bad at finishing anything and I mostly have just random sketches and scribbles :/

Mostly i either power through or i say "done" on my scribbles and make a new one. And then keep making scribbles and sketches untill i find something im happy with (that's usually way diffrent from what I set out to draw [but I also have aphantasia so I never truly have something specific i set out to draw so like im used to it] ) For basically every more polished drawing you see here on my Tumblr Ive got maybe 1-3 sketches and 2 erased scribbles i never did anything with. Sometimes i just colour a sketch im only mildly unhappy/happy with and post it like my recent c!Bedrock bros art.

The thing is you don't have to be dishearted about only making sketches if you keep doing it because then you get better and youll be able to make sketches youre more and more proud of. (art is also sometimes also about habbit-> the biggest advices Ive always gotten is to keep drawing everyday (even if it's just boxes or idk hair) that itll help you improve even if the motivation isn't there or youre in an artblock)

Currently im feeling alot of motivation loss myself, which is why Ive not posted as much as I usually do. Which is why I've resolved myself to just keep drawing things im unhappy with untill i get over it <- i brute force it a bit... 😓 Or in worst case ill look at old sketches and just finish something im not that happy about to just get drawing back into my hand.

Worst case you can do like i did in the past (which i still SHOULD DO because Ive been struggeling too sometimes) and draw legs in diffrent poses. Just legs. Legs. Legs. This sounds strange but the likelyhood of you starting your drawings with the head is high so you might actually find it easier to draw more starting from somewhere else on the body. (comon advice is the hips bc that's where everything else goes out from in both directions)

Sometimes it also helps using a diffrent medium or brush. The reason my art shifts sometimes is because sometimes I find a brush i find it easy to draw losely and creatively with <- it's a strange psykological trick like writers writing in casual or funky fonts because it's not as "formal" which lessens pressure.

Because pressure is the killer of motivation in my personal experience, not pressure in deadlines, but in perfroming to perfection. It's also why i draw for myself mostly and kick myself mentally in the face when I get to caught up in drawing things that will do good on Tumblr or twitter instead of what give me brainrot.

Visual of my brain when it's going really well, regardless of how good the drawings are->

I hope any of this made any sense, i feel I rambled a bit all over the place so feel free to ask any questions. I don't have any profisional artist advice because Ive never had any art education outside a few videos on yt, so this is whatever i could think of right now.

ALSO REMEMBER TO USE REFRENCE OH GOD IM SO BAD AT THIS BUT YOU!!! YOU REMEMBER IT!! BE BETTER THAN ME!!! USE REFRENCE FOR POSES!!! FOR TEXTURE!!! FOR HAIR!!! FOR FACESS!!! FOR EVEYTHING IT ONLY IMPROVES YOUR ART!!!! AND ITS NOT CHEATING!!!

#Ask

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fountainpenguin · 1 year

Text

FOP Fic News

Overview

I’ve always had table of contents docs for projects like Origin and Knots, and since I’m returning from hiatus, I recently moved them to a spreadsheet and mapped out what dates I should plan to upload chapters on and how long it will take me to finish these stories. I went through lots of docs with a critical eye and combined or cut chapters to get a better idea of how things are looking.

Posting at my current schedule of one chapter every other week, it looks like Origin and Knots will come to an end in 2025 (if I stay on top of my buffer) and although that feels so far away, there’s a certain relief in it since my combining and cutting helped me bring that down from 2026.

That schedule doesn’t leave wiggle room for other projects like Come What May, the 130 Prompts, and work for my other fandoms that I’ve been drafting over the years. I don’t really like the idea that if I wrap up Origin and Knots in 2.5 years, I’ll still have another several years of Prompts left to go. I always knew these were big projects and working on them made the long years of school more fun, but it’s always been my intention to finish them, and I’d rather do that sooner than later. After all, I’m still sitting on pieces I wrote in 2016 about Cavatina, and 2026 isn’t as far away as it seems... The idea that the 10-year anniversary of his arc might hit before I actually post it leaves me shook, my dude.

I’ve given it some thought and realized that if I post 130 Prompts on the weeks between Origin and Knots chapters, I can wrap the series up in 2026, maybe 2027. I can live with that a lot more than I can live with the idea of working on this project past 2030, ha ha.

In other words, I’m setting a goal of a ‘fic update every Friday, starting soon (I’ve got the next Prompt done, but I’m sitting on it for a sec to build the buffer out farther). There might be some Fridays where there’s nothing, but keep your eyes out for things that interest you. I hope you enjoy :)

130 Prompt Details

So, many of you are probably familiar with my FOP one-shot series, 130 Reasons Why I’m Fairy Trash. I've had all the 130 Prompts planned out for years, but I lost interest in some of those plans as time went on (Not the big plot stuff, that's still the same, but some minor standalones).

I recently went through my docs to refresh my memory on what’s to come. I had some vague ideas that I never fleshed out and realized that I never will, so I’ve scrapped those. I also had stuff I scrapped years ago, but fell in love with the drafts all over again and am eager to see them finished off.

In 2022, I took an FOP and Tumblr hiatus to focus on other things like my IRL job and personal projects, and I couldn’t maintain the spark of inspiration for FOP at the same time. Mostly, the reason for that was just that I was busy and was putting my time and creative energy into other projects, and I simply didn’t have time for both. I didn’t realize until now, but I think I also felt pressure to create something big and meaningful with what I submitted, and I became paralyzed with thoughts of putting out something “boring” or “weird” and facing critique that my work was confusing or unenjoyable.

Anyway, while recently looking through my WIPs, I remembered the 130 Prompts were always meant to be a series of short side stories and that there’s nothing wrong with dorky little one-offs. I don’t need to put pressure on myself to turn everything into a polished 10k+ story when just a few thousand words will do, or overthink the humor and flow to the point I talk myself out of doing something.

I spent some time a bit ago looking over my stuff and making a new plan for the order I want to post things in, and it feels much more achievable to me now. I’m excited to get back to it. Hoping to post some dumb and silly things more often because “I had an idea and it made me laugh” is valid.

Stuff Getting Scrapped / Kept

I’ve realized that I’m not going to write Identity Theft and Acacia Arcadia as standalone ‘fics. I scrapped some scenes and the rest will be recycled into 130 Prompts to replace the ones I cut. I’ve set my plan up so that the next Prompts in line are ones that have solid drafts and I’m excited to work on, so I’m hoping to get on a regular posting schedule with those soon, alternating weeks with Origin and Knots.

Hawthorn Haven and Devil’s Backbone will prrrobably still exist as their own ‘fics someday when the time is right, as when I first made their outlines, I was already prepared to work on them “when I’m older.” I don’t feel the same pressure to finish them. I’m still looking forward to them, but they’re in “Can’t talk about these things until we’re in that point of the timeline” jail. I’ve always intended for Devil’s Backbone to be the end of my FOP writing days, so it’s on the backburner for obvious reasons, but when the time does come to close out all the stories and wonderful worldbuilding, I hope it’ll be a blast.

I do still have a draft for a ‘fic called Along the Cherry Lane which focuses on Timmy and his friends growing up, marrying, having kids, etc. but that’s on the backburner for now too. I’m not sure if I want to keep it, but also not ready to let it go. If I do let it go, I’ll find a place for the scenes I liked within the Prompts or I’ll post one or two one-shots instead of the whole ‘fic. I do intend to get back to Come What May once I get the spark back for it and I might even return to Snips and Snails... who knows.

Tl;dr

I still have several years of FOP content that I plan to release, as I’ve never wanted to abandon these stories I love. I knew I was starting big projects and I knew they would take me years to finish, but as my 10-year anniversary of writing FOP ‘fics creeps nearer and nearer... Yeah, there’s a certain part of me that's ready to jump back into a schedule and see if I can wrap up all three of these big projects by the time I hit that mark. Crazy how it’s been so long.

Currently I have an Origin / Knots ‘fic buffer through the end of June. We’re entering the phase of the story where the drafts are pretty solid, which means they hopefully won’t take long to polish. Exciting!

The Schedule

Throughout 2023, you can expect Origin and Knots to alternate weeks. These two ‘fics are main priority in my ‘fic-writing life, so they get buffer priority and I intend to keep up with this goal as best I can. If all goes according to plan, we should be wrapping up towards the end of 2025. I hope to see y’all there :)

I’ll be sprinkling in updates to other projects throughout the “off” weeks. Sometimes there might be no update at all, and I’m okay with that because the “off” weeks are simply meant to be “If there is something, it can be shared” weeks. I’m not holding myself to posting at those times in the same way I’m holding myself to keeping Origin and Knots on schedule, but I look forward to getting to share some fun things like 130 Prompts, more Come What May chapters, miscellaneous one-shots, and content for other fandoms.

Even if I stay consistent, I definitely don’t expect to wrap up the 130 Prompts until 2026 or 2027, and that’s okay. These next few years will be busy, but I’m looking forward to forming a healthy work-life balance- there’s a certain value that a scheduled writing system has in helping you look forward to the next creation you get to share... It makes the work week a little bit nicer.

Closing

As a reader, your interest in silly fairy fanfics might come and go, but thank you so much to those who’ve loved my work over the years, reblogged posts, left reviews, sent Asks, chatted with me, and so much more.

Also, thank you to those who’ve left me kudos on AO3. I still get emails every time there are kudos, and while I don’t track how many kudos my little stories receive in this old, quiet fandom, it is really cool to see how much love has been given to some of the short pieces I wrote 6 or 7 years ago.

As the years have gone by, it’s been a good reminder that people have really liked some of those pieces that I don’t think about as often as my longer stuff. I don’t need to psych myself out worrying that my quick one-shots aren’t good enough... I’m looking forward to posting some short things again soon.

Thank you for the love and support! I hope you enjoy what’s next <3

#ridwriting #FAIRIES!#130 Prompts #Origin of the Pixies #Frayed Knots #99% true as far as we remember #Come What May

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maxbernini · 2 years

Note

i really like redoaune and anaïss friendship so far!!

tbh i can’t rly fully get into it or s10 as a whole given the context of like…many many many things lol but ignoring the context in the moment (at least as much as you can bc it is v v hard sometimes 💀), i like their friendship more than i thought i would, and i really really hope it stays platonic. or if it is made romantic, that it’s more of an open ending where they acknowledge their feelings but don’t act on them bc the timing isn’t right and anais wants to put herself first etc etc. i’m aware i’m being delusional hoping for that lmao

but yeah i like that their dynamic, unlike j*lal for eg, isn’t entirely ‘she’s snarky and borderline demeaning to him most of the time and yet he continues to worship the ground she walks on’. it def seemed like s8 2.0 in the beginning but she seems to genuinely respect and like him and i thought the whole giving him advice on how to date and then breakup with sophia thing was cute, esp. since she wasn’t jealous or had ulterior motives like i was worried they’d make her lmao. yes the bar is in HELL!!! which now almost annoys me bc like damn…you ARE capable of writing m/w couples who actually seem to enjoy each other’s company and who aren’t in a 24/7 yelling match and are both getting something out of this huh. i do still hate that nepotism & parental pressure clip though like i need to study deborah’s brain i need to know what goes through it and i hope that whole plot is dropped idc about plotholes bc i have zero faith in it being addressed the way it should. the clip where she discloses the rape to him was very well done imo, i like that he didn’t launch into a polished speech? he mostly just hesitantly responded to what she was saying and wasn’t asking questions like tiff & sasha (which to be clear wasn’t bad of them!! i don’t want it to sound like reacting that way IRL is wrong, it’s a complex situation.) anyways yeah. wish this was his season even tho i think r*dnais from his pov would be worse somehow? wish we were seeing him fall in love for the first time with sophia or frida (bc we don’t actually know she’s gay, it’s technically all speculation rn) instead like an interracial couple where neither are white and one of them’s maybe bi?? 😔

#rape tw #i don’t think they have romantic chemistry tbh only platonic like zoe & abdallah bounce off each other well #i don’t ‘ship’ them but even with no romantic chemistry yeah i’d still rank them above the other two #i actually don’t know which of those 2 i dislike more lol it changes daily #ask #anon #french posting

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chubmins · 3 years

Text

candy bear, sweetie pie (i wanna be adored)

cw: feederism, belly kink, weight gain, burping, brief mention of body image regarding jimin’s family, streamer!jimin.

“hello there... it’s manggae.”

jimin’s voice was low, almost a whisper, as he laid back on one of his hands and appraised the rapidly growing influx of messages on his live’s chat. they weren’t quick enough that jimin would lose track, but nowadays he would have to scroll back up to catch something he missed a few times. his audience had been growing.

“you missed me? cute. it’s only been a week.” his full lips stretched in a smile his viewers would be able to see and fawn over. jimin always positioned himself carefully, camera catching him perfectly from the lips down — not because he didn’t want the audience to see his face, they had seen him a handful of times now, but because he wanted his body to be the main focus.

and his body explained why his nickname on the streaming website was manggaetteok.

jimin had always liked to eat. growing up in an extremely rich family, food had never been an issue — until it started being taken away from him by parents and nutritionists who believed his chubby cheeks were something to be ashamed of. jimin spent his teenage years on diets, pills and stinky gym bathrooms. he almost started hating his body as much as his parents did.

until he moved out. was moved out, to be more precise — an apartment bought for him in the heart of gangnam, too big for just one person, way under-decorated to look like a homel. jimin was twenty and out of his parents' claws for the first time in his life.

it didn’t take him more than a year to figure out the most crucial things about himself: he prefered boys over girls, silk robes and lace over black pressed suits, and he very much prefered to stay home and order food to going out to a new bar every friday night.

jimin turned into the perfect definition of a homebody; and, soon enough, of a foodie.

he didn’t hold back when it came to food, and the results of his indulgence after years of restriction showed on his body rather quickly. at least his parents were right about one thing — he really was prone to gaining weight, and a lot of it.

sitting now on the floor of one of the three bedroom’s in his apartment, the one he had slowly decorated to be his streaming studio, jimin weight gain is nothing if not noticeable. nicely placed down on his fluffy baby pink carpet with thighs spread as wide as they would go, his belly hanged almost touching the floor. it looks so soft and pudgy now, bulging forward in an almost perfect round dome even when it’s empty. he has pink stretch marks from the top of his jiggly thighs to right under his belly button, which has gotten deep enough for jimin to fit and poke his entire pinky finger inside. his flabby tits rest nicely on top of his swollen gut, round puffy nipples a pretty light brown on display.

“remember when i’d dress up all cute and pretty for these lives?” jimin practically purred at the camera, both hands heading to his breasts so he could squeeze and jiggle them while chuckling. “my bras don’t fit me anymore… i need to buy new ones.”

as if on cue, the silent notification bar that signaled new donations started popping up repeatedly, each time with a different amount of the website’s currency he’d get to convert to real money later. jimin chuckled again, he knew how to play this game too well. he had indeed grown out of most of his fancy silk and lace lingerie, but he also didn’t want to repeat the same ones he’d still fit into. that being said, he had decided on his fit for today as being a pair of baby blue silk shorts that barely covered his ass when he stood up, and a matching silk choker with a small emerald pendant.

“well, well, look at that! seems like i’ll have some new lingerie to show you guys soon.” His hands moved away from his body before he could get too excited, and moved towards the tray he had off camera.

with a little bit of maneuvering, he pulled the traw towards himself until it was in between his massive thighs and the camera, positioned just so that his body wouldn’t be too covered up and his belly would still be on display.

“as you can see” jimin praticaly purred, “i followed your requests and got a full american breakfast. there are pancakes,” he pointed at each and every item as he spoke, mouth watering just thinking about how he was finally going to eat “eggs, sausages, muffins, bagels and a berry smoothie.”

that was probably enough food to feed a family of four — the chat flooded with excited messages of how they couldn’t wait to see jimin eating it all. at first his viewers’ excitement would startle jimin a bit, but now? now he lived for it.

after all, he’d always get as excited as them.

“should i start with the pancakes? they’re still warm.” he asked, reading all the messages he could, all of which were encouraging him to start eating.

jimin reached for the pancakes. there were six of them in total, fluffy and golden brown with melted butter running down on all sides. jimin’s fork was quick to make work through the first three layers as he balanced the plate on top of his belly, and once the big bite was inside his lips he moaned unashamedly.

“fuck… so good.” he barely finished chewing before he pushed more inside his mouth, closing his eyes in bliss. “i could eat this everyday. imagine how much bigger i’d get.”

his viewers got off on that, as he came to learn very quickly after starting to stream himself eating. jimin’s primary goal certainly wasn’t to gain weight, but it did keep the cash coming and he didn’t mind the plushness one bit. just a small price to pay for all the food he shoved inside himself, and he did look hot with all the extra pounds. jimin continued to shove the pancakes inside his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing, moaning almost obscenely throughout the whole process. it didn’t take more than five minutes for him to polish the whole stack.

“kinda wish i had ordered more” he pouted, putting the plate away and lightly slapping his still very empty gut. the donations started popping up again, messages telling him to order more right at that instant, to order ten times more next week. “don’t worry everyone, i still have a lot more to eat!”

jimin reached for the bagels next — there were 9 of them in a box alongside 4 muffins of various flavours, and jimin had started alternating between them while answering some of his viewers questions.

“last time i went on a date? that was a couple months ago, actually” he answered between bites of a blueberry muffin. “made him take me to an all you can eat buffet, ate like a pig. had to unzip my pants for dessert and all...” jimin licked his fingers clean, making a little show out of it before reaching for the last bagel and all but eating half of it in one big bite before continuing in a lighthearted tone, cheeks full. “probably freaked him out, he never called again.”

the story was only partially true — taehyung had taken him to an all you can eat buffet for their first date, but he also had called again. they were dating, in fact, but had made an arrangement to keep it from jimin’s subscribers. as much as jimin didn’t mind showing his body and face online for thousands to see, his private life remained private, and he was a firm believer that nobody needed to know his real name, the city he lived in or his relationship status.

“i need something savory, now. those muffins were really sweet.” jimin sighed, taking a big sip from his berry smoothie. one of his chubby hands played with his belly, caressing around the belly button before lifting the fat mass and letting it fall, sighing at the way it jiggled back into place. the movement dislodged a gas bubble, and he could hear the gurgling noise coming up his throat and feel the pressure on his chest right before letting out a loud belch.

“oh, yeah… that felt good.” another burp made its way out right then, shorter and deeper than the first one. jimin bit his lip and smiled, playing coy. “excuse me!”

he reached for the eggs, three full plates with enough spicy sauce on top that it dripped down Jimin’s chin at his first bite. he didn’t clean it at first, too preoccupied with stuffing his face until he could barely chew with his mouth closed. jimin still had a few steps to take before he felt actually full, but his stomach definitely felt a little bit harder at the top, now. he ate the first two plates mostly in silence aside from the casual moans and loud slurps from the berry smoothie, lips feeling tingly and swollen from the spice.

“you guys remember last time i ate this spicy sauce, right?” jimin smiled, going for the third and last plate. “that day with the ten hamburguers. i downed almost the entire bottle with them, got so gassy afterwards. couldn’t stop burping.” the memory makes his comment session go crazy, talking about how hot it was, how he should do it again. jimin chuckles, happy his viewers don’t mind how much of a pig he can be sometimes.

he continues eating, barely stopping to breathe — there’s still two dishes to get done with, and his stomach is starting to protest about the eggs he just ate.

“hmm… tummy is talking, you guys hear that?” jimin all but shoves a finger inside his belly button, moving the digit around in a movement that could almost be considered obscene. he feels so good, exposed like this, stomach gurgling away the fullness.

the donations keep coming at a fast rate as jimin keeps eating, pace much slower than when he first started with the pancakes, lips greasy and adorned with crumbles. his hands find his belly a plethora of times, caressing the stretched out skin, pressing against the swelled up gut as he unashamedly lets out moans and sighs of pleasure. that’s how jimin, sooner rather than later, finds himself out of food to eat, only half of his smoothie left.

“so full…” he groans, leaning back to expose his full, rounded out fat belly. it gurgles audibly then, jumping out in an abrupt movement as jimin’s lips fall open and he belches again, a long and wavering deep noise that sounds both disgusting and relieving. only then he reaches off camera for a tissue box, cleaning his fingers and then his lips and double chin, laughing as he spots some muffin crumbles on his chest and wipes them away carelessly.

“that was so—” jimin is interrupted by a small burp, cheeks puffing up cutely. “so good. but i can’t help but feel like i could pack more in here.” he pats his belly kinda harshly, the slapping sound loud inside his room. “should i go for 10 pancakes next time? or maybe only have pancakes, a huge stack of them… ah, bet i could eat 20.”

the chat is, as always, extremely encouraging. the donations start coming at a surprising speed again, some messages attached about how the money is for his future grocery trip and for him to buy double of everything. jimin bathes on the attention for a little longer, answering some questions while trying to soothe his ful, oversized belly, chuckling every now and then and pointing out the gurgling noises it makes as it tries to process all the food he just ate.

he was not lying, though — it does feel like he could pack more if he tried. but that’s a thought for next time, and jimin stores it for next week’s stream as he bids goodbye and claims it’s time for him to get into his food coma and digest so he can come back even fatter.

“this has been manggae… until next time, guys!”

#i'm literally shaking i'm so flustered about posting this fic #it's been a while since i've written anything #please note english isn't my first language #am trying my best #as always idk how to tag #chubby bt5 #chubmins

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stucky-starnes · 3 years

Text

Gleam and Glow

Chapter 1

Pairing: Grey! Bucky Barnes x Fem! Reader

Word count: 3,374

Description: The reader has been held captive by their own mother their whole life, taught to believe the world is bad and that they need to be protected from it. That their gift needs to be protected from it. They possess 70 feet of hair with healing properties and some people will do anything for a chance at peace.

General Warnings: This story contains dark elements and various dark characters!! Do not read if this makes you uncomfortable!!!, kidnapping, violence, language, angst, whump, for the purposes of the story the reader has 70ft foot long hair that glows gold- this does not change regardless of hair color or texture, inspired by the movie Tangled.

Chapter Warnings: kidnapping, manhandling, betrayal, mention of trafficking (selling/buying of a human), John Walker, very naive reader, brief sexual implications,arguments, un-gendered pet names,choking, illusion to sexual harassment, language, please read at your own discretion.

DO NOT REPOST MY WORK, REBLOGS ARE WELCOME AND APPRECIATED

A majority of your childhood was peaceful. You got to do all the normal kid things- of course you were never totally sure what a ‘normal’ kid thing was on account of the fact that you’d actually never met another kid but, it felt normal enough. Aside from the very abnormal ‘birth defect’ you were ‘gifted’ with. You stopped considering your magical abilities as a gift by the time you were seventeen, when your mother made it abundantly clear that you could never leave the tower, you could never go outside, and you could never cut your hair.

The only thing more annoying than the seventy foot long tresses was your mother. According to her, your father was a sloppy one night stand she found in a tavern. He was a love em’ and leave em’ type of guy; he gave your mother one great romantic night and then disappeared off the face of the earth. You’ve never met him. You’ve never met anybody. Your mother has always been your only companion. She was a beautiful woman, she said you take after her more than your dad. While she was gorgeous and protective, she was also passive aggressive, rash, and ostentatious. If it was possible for her to get out of being “the bad guy” she lunged, dragging you under at the first chance. When you were younger she would tell you stories about the outside, she made it seem like a gorgeous place. She described the kingdom and the many villages outside its walls. She started with all the good things until you showed interest in escaping, then, she gave you the truth. She began to spin tales of roads rich with crime, vigilante gangs, covert groups of thugs, and rebel Viking camps. From what you could piece together, the rebel Viking camps were the greatest concern.

The rebel Viking groups weren’t actually Vikings. Your mother had said they called them The Vikings because of their rugged and brutal lifestyle. The camp they occupy is more like a small village, the structures following Norse architectural style, chalk-full of criminals and runaways. Runaways. Your mother had always explained to you that when young girls ran away from their mothers they ended up in that village living a life of crime. The very thought of falling into the wrong hands has kept you from sneaking out or from begging to leave the tower. You found ways to be content, ways to keep busy.

The tower wasn’t as big as it looked from the outside, the only living space was at the very top of the tower. The top of the tower had about two floors worth of open space, minimal and organized in the lower level and very maximalist in the bedrooms and wall decor. Mother said the rest of the tower below was sturdy white brick and vine, aged by time and the weather. Most of the exterior bricks were cracked or crumbling, so all the support for the turret came from the tower’s solid core. The roof was a chipped and rusty blue color mostly concealed by untamed ivy growth, which also hid the entrance to the tower’s turret. To your home. The only way in and out of the tower was an intricate pulley system made from twisted vine and rope. Originally, mother had used your hair to get into the turret, until one day a strand snapped from the pressure, dying and losing its magic. In an effort to protect your gift, you helped your mother make the pulley.

Crafting things was just one of the many ways you spent your time in the tower. After you’d turned eighteen your mother didn’t stick around much, if at all, leaving at night to go to the palace or the tavern, sometimes coming back in the morning and sometimes being gone for a day or two. With so much time alone the only option was to learn how to entertain yourself. Reading books, cooking, painting, testing the information you soaked up from all of the books, sewing holes in clothes, polishing leather, polishing silver, dusting, drawing in the dust. It’s a really long list. If there’s more to add you add it, forever stretching the possibilities. As the sun started to go down however, it started to seep in just how repetitive and predictable your daily activities had become. While you knew leaving the tower would be a horrible and dangerous mistake, you couldn’t help but long to be outside. To feel the grass between your fingers or to stand out in the sun, somewhere other than where it leaks through the turrets window entrance. It could never happen. Knowing this was an impossibility kept an icy grip on your stomach, a lonely sort of feeling, naturally touch starved by fate. It’s been years since the last time you asked to leave. Much before you knew how dangerous it really was out there. Asking one more time couldn’t really hurt could it? You’d be twenty soon enough, just one touch wouldn’t hurt anyone.

Mother had left early in the morning, off to do some much needed grocery shopping; if she hadn’t decided to stop by the tavern she would be home very soon. Too soon to come up with a better plan. Quickly you started to prepare for her to come home, sweeping the dining area and pulling out the utensils needed to make a special stew recipe you remember she had enjoyed. If she was going to say yes she needed to be buttered up first. Once the cooking utensils were nicely organized on or beside the unlit stove, and the dust was done away with, it was time to make quick work of anything she could use against your argument. Rushing to one of your most treasured bookshelves you pulled a discarded velvet scrap from the back of one of your more worn astronomy books. The midnight blue fabric had been torn from one of your favorite dresses when you were sixteen, unwilling to part with the shredded material, it was quickly fashioned into a long braided bookmark. Since then you’ve opted for shorter than floor length gowns or comfortable riding pants and tunics. The supposedly “masculine” style annoyed mother to no end but then again she really couldn’t understand how suffocating the corsets could become, or how difficult it was to fasten them without getting hair caught beneath the strings.

Unbraiding the bookmark allowed it to become one long thick strand, setting it on the dining table, you went to gather your hair. For the most part, you tried to keep it close to yourself. Getting any part snagged or wrapped around something was more of a pain in the ass than taking the time to gather it together. Gathering so much hair was difficult, it took time and it was unbelievably heavy. Once you were finally able to get it all in one place you started the tedious task of braiding. In order to braid it up enough to keep it off the floor you split it into three sections, braiding those separately before braiding them up into a complex Dutch braid. It took nearly two hours to finish so you could finally tie up the end with the dismantled bookmark. The complexity allowed the braid to settle halfway down your calves, keeping it neat and off the ground. Now all that was left to do was light the lanterns around the room and wait. Waiting for mother to get home was nerve wracking, if possible you’d busy yourself with starting the stew but you were fresh out of the most important ingredients.

“Y/n let down the vine!” Mother yelled from the bottom of the tower and the tension finally broke.

“Coming!” You sighed out in relief rushing to the window and lowering out the vine life you had made.

Once you were sure she was safely in the lift’s sling, you utilized the pulley system to begin pulling her up. The tower was around forty feet tall, making the trip up lengthy and difficult. When she was close enough to the window entrance you hooked the vine slack onto the wall hook, keeping it stationary, before quickly coming to help her in with the groceries. Taking the canvas grocery bags from her arms and into the kitchen, you started pulling out the items to take inventory on what she’d bought at the market.

“How was the market? Did that man give you trouble on the celery prices again?”

“Ugh doesn’t he always? Absolutely exhausting, he wanted double, and then there was a fight at the tavern again which I always have to break up.” She pulled out a chair at the dining table, sitting into it and slinging her feet up into the neighboring chair.

You slowed for a moment, pulling the bundle of carrots from the bag slower as you processed that she may be intoxicated which meant there’d be zero chance of having the conversation you desperately desired.

“You went to the tavern?” You asked, feigning excitement.

“Of course sweetheart, I promised that I would but I wasn’t there for long I promise.” She got up to meet you in the kitchen, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“Now what are we having? I’m absolutely starved.” She smiled.

“I was going to make that stew from last winter that you liked so much. Now that fall is settling in.” you started to add broth and small peeled potatoes to the pot.

“That sounds delightful darling, I’m going to go rest my eyes, call me when it’s done?” Mother started to walk away. It was now or never.

“Actually!” You cleared your throat., “Actually I was hoping I could talk to you about something.”

“Alright but let’s make this quick, mama’s feet are aching.” She turned back around to sit in another chair.

“Well as you know I’m almost twenty, an adult really and I’m already very responsible around the tower-“

“Y/n where is this going?” She interrupted, rubbing her temples.

“I want to go outside.” You turned to look at her.

“We’ve talked about this! It’s far too dangerous! You know what would happen if anyone discovered your gift!”

“I know, I know, but I’ve thought about it and no one would even know! I won’t tell anyone about it, and if they don’t know I have it then they don’t know how to use it, so it’s useless to them. If I just keep it braided I’ll be completely normal!” You came to sit across from her, hoping it’ll be convincing.

“No absolutely not, it’s much too risky! I have kept you safe for nearly twenty years! I am not stopping now! You’re far too young to understand but this is what’s best for you!” She got up and started to walk away again.

“But it’s not! I’ve never met anyone else! I’ve never had friends or met other people my own age! I’ve never even seen a real man!” You were absolutely desperate.

“Oh a man?! This is about men huh?! So you want to leave the safety of the home I built for you to go whore around for a man?!” She was absolutely furious, beyond cooling down.

“Mother no!” Your face was burning with embarrassment at the very suggestion of sexual activities.

“No truly I understand! You would rather leave this place and be used by men! Drained of your power in one of those Viking camps no doubt! I won’t hear another word, I’m going out for air and your attitude better be gone by the time I get back!” She walked over to the vine, untying it from the wall and setting it into a rustier pulley wheel that would let her down slowly, she was gone just as soon as she’d finished her sentence.

You had no choice but to sit in utter silence and shame. Swallowed by guilt that mother could ever consider you’d do that to her. As much as you wanted to leave and experience the real world, you desperately didn’t want to disappoint your mother or end up somewhere bad. Very quickly you dissolved into regret, backing over to try and undo what’s already been done, planning a way to forgiveness. Finishing the stew was the only way you knew how to start so you got to work, making this the best stew you could ever devise. Having never written the recipe down you had to go solely based on flavor and gut feeling. That was the best way to cook anyway. Once it had been spiced to taste you put the lid on the pot to let it simmer.

Almost immediately you found yourself overrun with anxiety, filled with a need to do something with your hands. To occupy your mind. There really wasn’t much to do in the tower to occupy you enough to erase this from the forefront of your mind. So you opted for the only thing that you could: cleaning. Your started polishing, dusting anything that you could and when there was nothing left you sat and you waited. The silence was absolutely deafening. You’d totally zoned out until you heard the rattling of the pot lid on the stove, snapping your head to it only to see the stew boiling over.

“Shit!” You rushed to turn it off, burning your hand in the process as you cleaned up the mess. Suddenly you were no longer hungry.

Opting to leave the stew on the stove for whenever mother would return you left the kitchen, going to your room as you cradled your hand gently. Tears stung your eyes, threatening to drip through your lashes and you curled up on your bed. Reaching for your braid with your uninsured hand, you gently took the end and rested it over your burned palm, reaching to wipe away some loose tears. Whether the tears were from the pain or from emotional discourse you couldn’t be sure. After drying your tears you closed your injured fingers around the large amount of hair, and began to hum a soft familiar melody. As the melody continued your hair began to glow a brilliant gold, almost glittery in color. Once the shimmer reached your palm, the heat faded and the wound healed. You were able to breathe. You looked to your palm, it was as soft and unharmed as it had been that morning. As it had always been. No scars or leftover pain. Just smooth healthy skin.

You couldn’t be bothered to really prepare for bed. The dress you wore was moveable, the corset easily undone as it tied in the front rather than in the back. Laying back you took a deep breath, closing your eyes momentarily to let go of all the stress that you could. After a minute of peace you pushed yourself up and off the bed, walking over to the dark wood armoire, opening it to look in the mirror, you sighed looking at your dress. There was stew on the navy skirt and what looked like a sizable carrot. You’d have to change to sleep. Lifting the skirt up closer you plucked off the carrot and disposed of it in the nearby waste basket. Returning to the armoire you flipped your braid back over your shoulder and checked the white sleeves of the off the shoulder blouse, slid your hands over the black corset, grabbing the tied strings from the vertex of the sweetheart neckline you untied the knot. Just as you’d finished untying the security knot you heard a loud grinding bang from the lower level. Pausing to listen you grew concerned.

“Mother? Are you alright?” You called gently.

When you didn’t receive a response you dropped the corset strings and left your bedroom, looking over the bannister you were met with the worst sight you could possibly have imagined. A large piece of the stone floor was broken and pushed out of the ground, slid off to the side and two large men climbed out of the dark hole below. Half a million questions filled your head. How was there a space under the floor? How did these men find you? Did they know who you were? There wasn’t time to think, you had to act. Silently and quickly you snuck back into your bedroom, burning out the lamps and climbing into the armoire as best as you could. Tilting your chin up to silence your breathing you listened. Waiting. Thinking. The men were much bigger than you thought a man would be. From what you could make out they dressed in dark clothing. Leather. Worn and hardly taken care of if at all. They were similar heights. One a redhead and the other blonde, both with rugged facial hair. You only had a brief look and the adrenaline pumping through your veins was making it difficult to focus.

“I am never doing that shit again, forty feet of crumbling bricks and thirty feet of rope, you seriously didn’t think that through?!” You could hear them arguing.

“It didn’t look that tall alright? Can we just find the chick and get out of here? I lost my good boots in a poker game with trash panda and if I don’t win them back he’s gonna tear them apart.”

It was clear they were coming for you. The only thing you could do was hope mother came home or that they didn’t see you behind all the other clothing in the armoire. The stairs creeped. Once. Twice. There was only one creaky step. They were both coming up. You held your breath.

“Food on the stove and the lamp in here is still warm. She was here recently.” They made it into your bedroom.

“If I had to guess I’d say she’s still here.” The footsteps stopped. It was silent.

Suddenly, the hem of your skirt was yanked-it had been caught in the door-and then the armoire burst open. The blonde man grabbed your arm as you struggled, ripping you from the small dark space and out into the open. He spun you around, pressing your back to his chest, his left forearm braced across your neckline and gripped your right shoulder. His right hand held a sharp silver blade to your heart.

“Well, well, well, Princess did we catch you at a bad time? These corset strings are so very loose for company.” The blonde man taunted, using the tip of his blade to pull on the cords.

You gripped this forearm, pushing back closer to his chest in an effort to get away from his blade as you struggled.

“P-please just leave me alone, I won’t tell any-anyone.” You stuttered, trying to stay calm the way your mother had taught you.

“We have plans for you, this hair of yours… hear there’s some people willing to pay a pretty penny for just a touch.” The red headed man stroked your braid, you jerked your head away.

“Oh oh oh” the blonde man laughed. “She’s a feisty one, are you sure we have to deliver her so soon? Could be fun…”

“Oh c’mon man don’t be gross he wants her unharmed. Mostly. C’mon just cloth her so we can go. Boots remember??” The red head said, grabbing your wrists and tying them together roughly. He took the dagger from the blonde, continuing to hold it in its position as the blond reached into his pocket.

“No no no no no please please I’ll give you anything you want just leave me alone!” You begged, swerving your head away from the blondes clothed hand as it moved towards your mouth.

“Bitch stop fussing around!” He slid his left forearm up to your throat, both choking you and effectively stabilizing your head long enough to clamp the cloth over your mouth and nose.

It hardly took thirty seconds before your vision started to swim and your vision started to fade to black.

“We’re already late. He’s waiting.” One of the men said as he slipped a cloth bag over your head. Your hearing went out, senses dulled as you gave in the the dark.

#marvel fanfiction #marvel reader insert #reader insert #x reader #bucky x reader series #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fic #bucky x you #dark!bucky x reader #grey!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader #Gleam and Glow #bucky Barnes tangled au!#tangled au!#marvel au

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thereluctantinquisitor · 3 years

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OC-tober Day 4 - Medicine

So heads up for (the, like, five lol) people who might be familiar with Stonebreaker up to this point - there has been some adjusting/reshuffling of the characters to balance things out and help dig me out of this deep writer’s block. So… yeah, just roll with it!

In which Adiran is just relaxing in the one place he feels safe, only for that to all go out (or through) the window (1000 words).

CW for cheap, nasty alcohol.

Prompt is from @oc-growth-and-development‘s OC-tober list!

---

There were very few places Adiran felt were truly his own. The palace belonged to his parents. The city to the people. The training grounds to the soldiers. The gardens were close, but there were always people passing by. Servants whispering as they walked. Gardeners clipping branches and tending to new blooms.

But Adiran’s private rooms? His bedroom, his bath, and the spacious entry for relaxing and receiving guests? Those were his.

It was an unspoken thing, mostly. A person’s private quarters was their space away from the demands of the outside world. Even his mother and father had separate entry rooms and baths, connected by a central bedchamber. As it turned out, even Kings and Queens needed a break from each other.

Which was what made it all the stranger when he heard a frantic tapping at his window.

On the third floor.

Frowning, hand automatically dropping to where his sword would have been, Adiran slowly made his way towards the Valcretian windows. Designed to help circulate air in the humid Rosemarsh climate, they had two large ornate panels that swing outward, latched at the centre by a gilded hook. The royal palace simply used the design because it was foreign, and therefore expensive and desirable. Despite their beauty, Adiran’s were almost always covered by a thick blue curtain, designed to block both light and prying eyes. He kept them drawn so often he could actually see a fine layer of dust gathered on the dark material. The house staff would have a fit, if they were ever permitted inside his chambers.

Three sharp taps again, more insistent this time. A muffled sound accompanied them as well; a single - rather colourful - word in a voice that was entirely too familiar.

Heart squeezing, Adiran ripped the curtain aside to find Sylda crouching on a branch of the towering Ashewood just outside his window. Let me in, asshole, she mouthed, pointing exasperatedly at the latch. Still at a loss for words, Adiran unhooked it and shoved open one of the panels. The thief, all elbows and knees, spilled into his room like a toppled pitcher. “Ugh - finally,” she said, picking herself up off the carpet and dusting the bark and leaves off her clothes. “Thought I’d have to spit on a guard just to get some attention around here.”

“I… what… how…?” Adiran just gaped as Sylda shook out her gangly limbs, snapped the curtains shut again, and proceeded with cat-like curiosity to poke around his room.

“Who, what, when?” she teased, dropping her voice in imitation of his own. Distracted, she gave a low whistle as she prodded his duvet. “Divider’s Own - I reckon your bed’s as big as my entire room!”

“What— I—” Adiran caught himself mid-stammer, partly because the look Sylda gave him made it clear she would not hold back a second time. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? How the fuck did you get in here?”

“Window.”

“That’s not what I—” Adrian cringed and lowered his voice. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

She just grinned, spun around, and flopped bodily onto his rumpled bed. “And you know that’s a secret. A trick of the trade, as they say. I can’t just go telling anyone how to sneak in here.” Sighing, she seemed to all but melt into the soft mattress. “It’d be bad for business. And for you, probably. Wouldn’t want any unsavory sorts climbing in through your window at all hours of the day.”

“Yes. That would be terrible.”

“Right?”

Judging by Sylda’s tone, the finer details of just how many people might actually know how to sneak onto palace grounds was, evidently, a matter for another day. Running an agitated hand down his face, Adiran double-checked the window before turning back to confront his latest problem. “Can you at least tell me what you’re doing here?”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Sitting up, legs crossed, her boots leaving dirty streaks on his covers, Sylda swung her battered satchel around until it was resting square in her lap. “Hadn’t seen you around in a while. Figured you might’ve caught something nasty last time you were out mingling with us low-folk. So…”

Before Adiran could even muster an indignant response, she pulled out a bottle of something painfully familiar. “You didn’t,” was all he said, aghast, before a wicked grin lit up her face.

“Didn’t… what? Bring you some medicine, like the kind and thoughtful friend I am?” Her smile widened as she held the bottle aloft, swaying it enticingly. “Damn right I did. Now, you got cups in this fancy palace of yours, or are we swigging?”

Adiran was still trying to process what was happening. Taking his silence as some kind of response, Sylda shrugged and tugged the cork out with her teeth, barely managing to catch a stray droplet on her outstretched palm before it stained his sheets.

“Wait... you... you seriously broke in here just to torture me with Palmaros Red?” Adiran had had a rough time, after his introduction to that particularly deceptive breed of swill. It was just sweet enough that you could comfortably polish off a whole bottle before the suffering kicked in. Despite his hesitation, Adiran found himself sliding onto the bed beside Sylda, doing everything in his power not to dwell on the suspicious brown streaks left by her boots. “Do you hate me or something?”

Rolling her eyes, Sylda took a long, deep pull of the wine, throat bobbing as she swallowed it with a belligerence that bordered on terrifying. Veteran though she was, even she winced at the after-burn as it went down. “Smooth as gravel,” she rasped, then turned her attention back to Adiran. “And do you really reckon I’d come all this way for someone I hate?” Before he could reply, she shoved the bottle at his chest. “Just drink up, princeling. It’s been quiet without you around to talk shit with me.”

Wrapping a hand obediently around the bottle, Adiran regarded it with pure disdain, almost wishing Sylda had just left him entirely alone. But, of course, that thought drained away when he glanced up to find her watching him fondly, lips twisted in amusement, dark brows raised expectantly, mouth tinged a tell-tale red. That strange pressure in his chest suddenly returned, almost making it hard to breathe.

What could he have possibly done, to make someone go to all this trouble just to drink utter piss with him?

In truth, he didn’t know. He felt like he barely knew anything, these days. Not where other people were involved. But despite his own self-doubts... there she was. Sitting in the last place he ever expected to see her. A surprisingly welcome sight, even in the one place he dared to call his own.

So, with a defeated sigh, he plucked a stray leaf out of her curly hair, and took his damn medicine.

#oc-tober #oc tober #oc-tober 2021 #oc tober 2021 #original writing #stonebreaker series #reluctant writes #adiran #sylda #yeah things just werent working with sylda over in the Other Plot #she was a last-minute addition to the cast and it always felt like it while writing #but she fills a need over in Talvera with Adiran and Riin so that's where she lives now lmao #and she will still play a very important role - just in a different way

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mittensmorgul · 3 years

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(re: trad authors vs fanfic authors and the “nine levels of removal") Yes. This. Story time! I went to a book event for a well known, critically acclaimed, best selling author once about 20 years ago. He'd never done a proper "book tour" before and as a fan I was excited. Myself and other fans from a Yahoo Group (RIP) met up at the event and gave Mr Popular Author a fan art book we'd put together. He later wrote that he’d had to go off to a corner of the bookstore to hide and cry for a few minutes because he'd always thought he was writing into a void. Then BOOM, there we were, a big group of us, right in front of him, loving his work and giving him feedback (and gifts!) He’d never so much as read a review of any of his books before. The sudden realization that actual humans had read (and liked!) his work was apparently very emotional for him. Fanfic authors don’t have the luxury of that distance. And I don’t envy them for it. The feedback they get is immediate and devastating. Trad authors often won’t even get told how many copies their book has sold for the first six months after publication. Fanfic authors see every single view and kudos and comment in real time.

Yep. This.

I mean, it’s shifted a bit in the last 20 years. A lot of traditionally published authors have websites, or twitter, or other social media. Before I ever came to fandom, I was trying to go the traditional publishing route, too. Heck, a decade later I’m still on author twitter (most of my twitter is authors/publishers/agents/editors because those are the people I befriended when I first started seriously writing). But there is a sense of removall still there between authors and readers. And twitter followers and interactions don’t always equate to readers.

I mean, look at any author’s twitter, and a lot of it is just... like anyone else’s twitter.

Authors can also go look at their reviews on Amazon or Goodreads or wherever else online, and see their book’s daily ranking in sales if they really want to, but trust me on this, everyone involved in the publication of their books has probably told them not to do this. It’s not helpful in any way, unless they’ve shot to the top of the bestseller lists. Learning their new release ranks 32502905 in their genre... isn’t worth bothering, you know? And there’s nothing to do by obsessing over it.

When your agent is sending you all the good reviews, all the positive feedback, and encouraging you to finish the draft of your next book or your next round of edits, you don’t HAVE to think about responding to every comment anyone makes on your work. You’re encouraged NOT to respond. Because those reviews are NOT FOR YOU. They’re for other readers, to help them decide whether or not to make a financial investment in your already published book.

Fanfic comments ARE NOT THAT. Fanfic comments are written directly TO the author. Sure, other readers might see them, and I’ve had conversations start in comments on my fic before so I know it happens. But when a reader writes a comment on a fic, it’s generally to thank the author for the story, for having entertained them for a while.

Not all fanfic authors reply to comments, but I think the vast majority of us TRY to at the very least. Thanking the reader for reading, expressing the happiness we feel that our work has brought someone else a bit of joy (or angst, or whatever feeling we’ve inspired with our words). Or else answering questions the commenter has asked, or otherwise expressing gratitude.

It’s a DIRECT CONVERSATION, the likes of which most people will never have with a traditionally published author. The absolute ridiculousness that anyone expects the works we publish on AO3, for free, can be compared in any way to a traditionally published novel is beyond belief. The conceit that works we write-- again, for free, in our spare time, out of love for doing it-- should be as polished and free of any sort of errors as works that have spent more than a year and often more than two years going through multiple rounds of editing, proofreading, line editing, typesetting, etc. where MANY PEOPLE have scoured it for errors and yet still a few slip by here and there... I mean, HOW can anyone hold writers working on our own, in our spare time, for zero pay, purely for our own enjoyment to the same level of exactitude that we hold commercial novels? It’s laughable.

And honestly, it reaches a point where we’d rather just post the thing and move on to the next thing. I have gone back and done minor edits to some of my older works. If I’m rereading and notice a typo, I’ll fix it, for example. I once switched a character and wrote it as a different character because I felt bad about how the original character was portrayed. But for the vast majority of them I have zero intent of going back and making major edits on anything I’ve written, because I have moved on. I’m writing something else now, and maybe that will be more polished for having written the previous things with the wonky sentence structure or the awkward choice of words.

Mostly I write because I want to tell the stories that are stuck in my head. I need to get them out or they wedge in there like a big old log jam. Enough words build up that if I don’t start lining them up and pushing them out, the pressure builds up and bursts out in really inconvenient and messy ways. I’m personally not writing fanfic as “practice.” Or because I hope to some day be “good enough” to publish original works for money. I came to fandom to write fanfic so I wouldn’t have to deal with the rest of the publishing industry lol. I don’t need encouragement or approval or advice on how to improve. I just need an outlet. And if other people enjoy anything I write, that’s just a bonus to me.

(I had a publishing contract in my hands, stared at it for three days and then cried as I tore it up... I didn’t want to put myself through the publishing mill... I was already burnt out just getting to that point, and couldn’t imagine it becoming my life for years to come. It wasn’t worth it to me, and then I found fandom and AO3 and fanfic, and got all the benefit from writing with none of the angst of commercial publishing. This is where I WANT to be, this is not a stepping stone or training ground for someday becoming a “real author.” Sure, it is for some folks, but for a lot of us, this is just what makes us happy.)

Can you imagine going to a craft show where everyone has spent their time making beautiful handmade things and walking directly up to each artist and critiquing their work? Going up to a knitter and complaining that you saw a nicer hat in Macy’s the other day and pointing out everything about her hat that you don’t like? Or going to a jewelry designer and saying you prefer gold to silver, and demanding to know why they chose to inlay green stones when clearly they should’ve used blue ones?

Same vibe on critiquing fanfic in the comments. Or at the author in general. It’s just rude.

#writing is hard #fandom problems #and granted i don't tend to get negative comments or critical comments #so this dosn't really apply to my wonderful readers <3 #but just in general... I know other authors who have stopped writing entirely #after being deluged with negativity or 'helpful advice' that is in no way actually helpful #Anonymous

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thetomorrowshow · 3 years

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unless you take your army back ch. 3

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When I tell you I have never been more mad at one of my characters

cw: blood, violence, injuries

As the week cycled past, Jack fell into a kind of routine. He hated to leave Crutchie alone for any amount of time, but he had things to do. He made the decision to accept the cartoonist job, so that he could get away with selling less papers and still afford rent and food for both him and Crutchie.

Same as every other morning, Jack climbed down from the roof and got the boys up and getting ready with as little noise as possible--he didn’t want to wake Crutchie prematurely, especially if the kid had been having nightmares like he suspected. A quick trip to the convent and back, leaving Specs to get the troupe to the Delanceys’, which he handled easily. This morning, Jack took the coffee and apple that the nuns had given him and set them on the chair beside Crutchie, who was just beginning to stir. Jack felt immense relief--he couldn’t stay, he really couldn’t, but waking alone had sent Crutchie spiraling into a panic attack more than once in the past few days.

“Hey Crutch, breakfast,” Jack announced, cringing inwardly as he saw Crutchie flinch. The boy sat up, rubbing his eyes with his good hand--most of the bandages on that hand had been removed, excepting two fingers that were wrapped together to make them heal straight. Crutchie had had to let Katherine do that, even though he’d been changing his own bandages for the past three days. Katherine wasn’t too happy with this arrangement, but Jack knew that Crutchie was uncomfortable with letting someone--especially a girl--patch him up. When the two had approached him for a tie-breaker to this argument, he had easily sided with Crutchie. The look of gratitude and relief on Crutchie’s face had been worth Katherine’s disapproval.

Crutchie took the apple and frowned, then put it back down in favor of the coffee. Jack raised a brow at that as he hopped from one foot to the other, trying to stall his departure. “Somethin’ wrong with it?” he asked. Crutchie shrugged.

His silence wasn’t strange, really. For Crutchie it was far from the norm--sure, he usually hid pain from everyone, but he liked to talk. It was part of who he was. Crutchie had barely spoken a sentence strung together in the past week. Kids who came from the Refuge were always quiet, though. Jack himself had never really talked about his time there, just bottled it up until it exploded onto the paper. He’d gotten better, it had just taken some time. Same for any of the others who had been in there. Crutchie would be better in no time.

“D’ya need anything else?”

Crutchie took another sip of coffee. He glanced around, eyes wide and sad. For a moment, Jack saw not his fifteen year old brother, but a child. Eight years old, like he was when they found him. Shivering from the cold, face all bruised up, hiding in a back alley as snow swirled around and attempted to bury him.

Then Jack blinked, and Crutchie looked--well, not fifteen (he’d always passed for younger, useful on the streets), but like himself. Sort of. He was bruised up, of course--his entire face was a mottled green and purple as it began to heal--and hadn’t really done much smiling lately. It was still Crutchie, though. As tired as he looked now, Jack knew it wouldn’t be long before he was raring to go, grinning that bright grin of his, his eyes sparkling as he ribbed good-naturedly with the other boys.

“Open the window?” Crutchie whispered, and Jack nearly ran to do so. There were a few windows in the room, but Crutchie hadn’t specified which one, so he threw open each of them. As he was getting the one next to Crutchie, the boy looked up at him. “Don’t ya have work?” he asked, a bit louder.

“Ye-es?”

Crutchie rolled his eyes, and Jack mentally celebrated. Every time Crutchie rolled his eyes or quirked a brow, Jack gained more hope that his recovery was going well. “Get outta here, Jack.”

Jack lingered a few moments longer, but only long enough for Crutchie to glare at him. “All right, all right, I’m headin’ out,” he said, hands in the air. “I’ll be back in a few hours. That apple better be ate by the time I’m back.”

With the windows open, he could hear the first calls of the street vendors. He really did need to leg it. Jack adjusted his hat and made off, the door swinging shut behind him.

Crutchie winced, then watched it for a few moments. Apparently assured that Jack was not going to return, he traded the cup for the apple and chucked the fruit out the window beside him.

Too much time that Crutchie didn’t have had passed. A whole week of being laid up in someone else’s bed, letting them pay his rent and bring him food. He had to get back out there, and soon.

Crutchie wasn’t stupid. He knew how he looked--he’d know even if Albert didn’t insist on telling him every day “Get healed, Crutchie, ‘cuz nobody’s hankerin’ ta buy papes from that ugly mug”. He also knew that he had been perhaps hours away from death when Katherine rescued him, and that took time to get over.

But Crutchie wasn’t a normal kid. He didn’t have a pa with a job, or a mother who was supposed to take care of him, or money just lying around. He had a job, and he took care of himself, and his money went toward survival. Recovery just wasn’t an option for a kid who had to work every day of the year.

He supposed that, in some respect, that was what the union had been formed for. Davey’s dad had been laid off because he got hurt on the job, and unions were supposed to stop that from happening. The newsies weren’t officially hired, though, were they? Were they going to have to be listed as part of the company now? Would there be contracts to sign for everyone? But newsies came and went, it had to be more cumbersome to keep track of everyone involved. The whole affair made his head hurt.

Union benefits or not, Crutchie didn’t have the money to spend many more days in bed, and he wasn’t about to let Jack waste his savings on him when he was capable of making money. Jack was going to be tough to get through to on this issue, but Crutchie was pretty sure he had Racetrack on his side. Race was popular enough that others would back him, and he would stand up to Jack. As long as Crutchie could prove that he could go back to selling, Jack would be forced to let him.

So. Now he had to work on actually being capable.

Crutchie hadn’t walked anywhere himself in the past days--there was always an abundance of newsies to help him to the washroom, practically carrying him there and definitely carrying him back to bed. It was honestly getting to be pretty annoying--maybe he could start by making it to the washroom by himself.

Standing up would’ve been easier had he eaten that apple, but Crutchie was fairly certain that he had a tooth or two loose and wasn’t in a big hurry to have them drop out. That was the only reason, he told himself. He was fine, just needed to see if those teeth would settle back into place. He didn’t have a problem with food.

His crutch had been propped up against the wall beside the bed for days, cleaned as best as possible but still with a small crack near the end of it. The cushioning had been mostly replaced, the old cloth having come apart completely. Crutchie wasn’t sure who had fixed and cleaned it, and he didn’t much feel like asking. It was selfish, but he didn’t want another person to be indebted to.

Crutchie slid the crutch over to himself and used it to pull himself up, which he soon discovered was exactly what it sounded like: a bad decision. His knees buckled instantly and he couldn’t catch himself before he was lying on the floor, hip and side smarting from the impact.

He took a moment to breathe, clenching and unclenching his fists despite the ache in his fingers. He could do this. He had to do this. Crutchie steeled himself, then used his crutch one-handedly to bring himself to his knees, pushing himself from there up onto a wobbly foot.

His leg was sore from disuse (and probably from that dislocation and various other beatings), but it wasn’t nearly as bad as his chest and back. In fact, now that he was standing even his head felt worse. There was a pounding behind his eyes that made him want to vomit, but he didn’t back down. He couldn’t.

Crutchie propped the crutch under his left arm, biting his lip to stop a noise from escaping as it rubbed against a cut (and so many bruises) on his ribcage. He could do this. If the Refuge hadn’t been shut down, he would still be there, right? He would still be working right now, digging holes or polishing stairs or something equally as gruelling. If he would be doing it in that situation, he should be able to do it here.

Moving the crutch forward made the pain worse, and his side began to sting--it might have split open that cut. Still, Crutchie let it swing forward, then put as much of his weight as he dared on it and hopped.

Sure, it hurt--the padded underarm rest of the crutch dug into the cut and now Crutchie was certain it was bleeding--but he hadn’t fallen. He’d taken a full step with his crutch, all by himself.

Crutchie couldn’t find it within himself to be proud.

Slower than the first, Crutchie took another step, then another. By this point his chest was screaming for proper air, head pounding with each shuffle forward. It was time to turn back, before his brain decided that he wasn’t getting enough oxygen to stand upright. It really did hurt to breathe. It hurt to think. Everything hurt, so very very much.

Three more hops and he was back by the bed. He wanted to just collapse into it, fall face-first onto the blankets, but he knew that would be more pain than it was worth.

Never mind, he was just too tired. Crutchie faceplanted into the bed, screaming through gritted teeth as it jostled his various injuries. He lay there for a few moments, knowing he needed to turn over in order to feel less pressure on his lungs and breathe properly, but not yet wanting to lie on his twinging back.

He’d made six steps, he added up as he situated himself. Six measly steps. It had been about a week since he left the Refuge. A whole week of rest and he could still barely stand, let alone walk. He had to get back out there, pay his way, provide for himself. He hadn’t asked who was paying for his rent and food, but he had a strong notion it was coming from someone whose name sounded a lot like Kack Jelly.

Jack wasn’t selling near as many papes as he used to, not with the amount of time he was spending back here. According to Katherine, he was getting a job with Pulitzer as an artist of some kind? Crutchie wasn’t quite sure what exactly it was--he’d been pretty feverish at the time--but it probably didn’t pay much, and Jack hadn’t even started the job yet.

Whatever Jack couldn’t come up with, the others would be pooling to make up for. Elmer was probably budgeting it, Crutchie thought absently as he fiddled with the bracelet on his wrist. Elmer was one of the younger kids, but surprisingly good with numbers and calculations and things like that. Elmer working out the money, Race encouraging the others to contribute, Specs and Mush talking Jack into letting them help--Crutchie could see the whole ordeal playing out in his mind’s eye. Jack wouldn’t have been happy, but he also probably was getting low on spare change. They’d all lost a decent bit just by not selling for the few days (or day singular, in Crutchie’s case) that the strike had lasted. If he could get back to work soon, he could stop taking their hard-earned money.

Tomorrow morning, he decided. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t walk today, he would have to tomorrow. He would get up early and make it out of the room before Jack even came down through the window to check on him. That would prove it to everyone that he could at least sell five papers. He was even willing to let Jack go pick them up for him, as long as he could sell.

Before any of that happened, though, Crutchie needed to check up on his bandages. Katherine would kill him if he had bled through them while trying to walk alone. Maybe not yet, though. Maybe he could just close his eyes for a second.

Something was . . . off.

Jack hadn’t made it in time to see the headline since before the strike, and in the past week, he’d ran up to Wiesel’s only for Specs to hand him his papers. The nervous looks the boys had shot him each morning should have been enough to tip him off that something wasn't right.

He’d ignored them though, assumed they had to do with his tardiness or the headlines. Now that he knew better, now that he knew something was up, Jack was torn between wishing he’d been on time every other morning and wishing that he’d been late this morning. Despite stopping back at the lodging house to bring Crutchie breakfast, though, he had somehow made it back before Wiesel even started selling.

Today the looks he was getting were downright panicked as the newsies lined up, watching him carefully. The air felt tense, even heavier than normal. Jack got in line with the rest of them, not pushing his way to the front like he normally did. Something was off.

“Jojo,” he said slowly, turning to the kid behind him, “what’s goin’ on?”

“Whaddya mean, Jack?” Jojo replied, false cheer coloring his voice. Jack narrowed his eyes at him. Jojo didn’t waver. Good for him.

Jack looked back to the front, trying to not fidget. He was supposed to be meeting with Pulitzer today, right about the time that he usually checked on Crutchie. Maybe if he bought fewer papes, he could skip over to the lodging house before hiking to Pulitzer’s office? He was supposed to be bringing some examples of his art, so he’d have to stop by the lodging house anyway. He also was supposed to meet with Spot Conlon even later, who was currently handling union business over at The Journal. The eventual hope was that Jack, Davey, and Spot would become a team, three appendages of the same purpose, who could all visit any one of the newspapers and discuss rights and the like. Right now, though, he wasn’t entirely sure what Spot had been telling The Journal. Their meeting this evening would hopefully remedy that.

“Hey, Jack! You’re here early!”

Jack looked up from his thoughts to see Davey grinning as he joined the line, followed by a waving Les. Jack nodded back to them.

“Thought I’d see how badly Race is swindlin’ Snyder,” he said, and a couple of the boys gave forced chuckles. Okay. That was odd.

“Papes for the newsies! Come on, I ain’t got all day!”

Jack began to step forward in line, only for Mush to come out of nowhere and grab him by the arm.

“Hey, whatever happens, I gotcha back,” Mush said. Jack frowned. What was he talking about? “Jus’-- jus’ don’ fight if you can help it.”

Fight?

Jack was beginning to feel like he wasn’t going to like this at all.

As always, his intuition was correct. It wasn’t hard to laugh off Weasel’s snide comments about where he had been and their union, but then Morris Delancey opened his stupid mouth as he was handing Jack his papers.

“Where’s the crip, huh? We was hoping we killed him when Snyder let us at him. You been out mournin’ him?”

All background chatter faltered. At first Jack thought it was just his senses tuning in to Morris and Morris alone, but he realized vaguely that everyone was watching this interaction. The smile slipped from his face as for once, he was speechless. His teeth grounded together as the image of Crutchie screaming, crying for help while the Delanceys beat him into the ground was forced into his head.

Morris noticed, as did Oscar, who stepped forward with a grin. “What?” Oscar asked. “Tough Jack Kelly, gonna cry because the mean Delanceys bashed a poor cripple’s head in?”

Those were fighting words. Oscar knew it, and Jack knew it, and Oscar knew Jack knew it, and Jack knew Oscar knew Jack knew it. Jack couldn’t find it in him to care that he was being goaded--he was seething. Crutchie had come back to the lodging house unconscious and nearly dead, almost unrecognizable and the Delancey brothers had been a part of that. They might have been the ones who made it so painful for Crutchie to breathe, or the ones who hit his head so hard he couldn’t see straight, or the ones who broke his arm, or the ones who left the handprint-shaped bruise on his throat that still hadn’t faded completely--

They were laughing now, saying more vile things that reached Jack’s ears muffled, as if he was underwater. Someone else said something, gripping his arm, but Jack wrenched away from them. He grabbed Morris’s collar, drawing him close.

“You two wanna take that back?” he growled. Morris bared his teeth in a dumb grin.

“Maybe we oughtta go find him, in whatever corner the rat’s crept to ta lick his wounds. Bet he’d squeal just at the sight o’ us. Bet he’d try ta drag himself away. Bet he--”

Jack socked him square in the jaw. There was noise, lots of it, but all he could focus on was pummeling Morris until his now-shocked face was covered in blood. Hands pulled at him, but Jack dove over the counter, papers flying, to land on top of Morris, slamming fist after fist into him. Oscar kicked him hard in the side and Jack took that opportunity to latch onto his leg, pulling him down too. Before he could do any real damage, though, two strong sets of arms were prying him away and pulling him through the mess of newspapers.

“Jackie, Jack, please, let’s just go--”

Jack shoved Davey off of him, trying to shake the others off his back.

“You scared, Morris?” he shouted, voice cracking, struggling with the increasing amount of arms holding him back. “Only brave ‘nough to pick on thems as can’t fight back, huh? Huh!?”

Oscar was helping Morris up, the latter holding a hand to his own nose as it spurted blood. Everyone was yelling, screaming, shoving one another, and Jack found himself being dragged away, even though he was still trying to throw punches and kick out. “Let me go!” he gasped, face burning as red as his sight. “Let me at ‘im--he can’t--he said--!”

Mush and Tommy Boy ignored him, not letting him go until they had gotten him into an alley, surrounded by what seemed like every Manhattan newsie. There they loosened their hold, and Jack jerked away, dragging a hand under his nose as he glared at them all. Some of them had the decency to look ashamed, but most looked completely unrepentant, a few glaring right back.

“Lemme guess, you all’s known about this?” Jack said loudly, glancing from Specs to Race, from Buttons to Elmer. Les looked away.

“Don’t feel bad, Jack,” Jojo pleaded. Jack didn’t even look at him. “Albert tried ta do the same the other day.”

“I ain’t feelin’ bad,” Jack practically bellowed. He kicked the wall of the alley angrily. Still no one looked away. What was wrong with them? Why were they staring at him, some with pity, some with defiance? Why couldn’t they just go about their business and leave him to his?

“Look, Jack--”

“No! No, Racer!” Jack fell to his knees, tearing at his hair. He choked on a lump in his throat and realized there were hot tears rolling down his face. “It ain’t--he--” he took a shuddering breath, his voice cracking-- “why do they gotta hate him so much?”

No one answered. Jack stayed like that for a while, his knees digging into the dirt of the alley, frequently sniffing and rubbing at his face. How could someone be so terrible, that all they lived for was hurting kids who already had it hard enough? They had literally threatened to kill Crutchie, had faked remorse at not finishing him off the first time--

Jack was going to be sick. His stomach flip-flopped, reminding him of how he hadn’t eaten since midday yesterday. How could the others just stand there, while the Delanceys made vile threats toward one of their own, toward Crutchie? They had even known already--why hadn’t they told Jack?

Jack’s stomach twisted again, but before he could toss anything up, there was someone kneeling before him.

Davey wrapped his arms around Jack, pulling him into an awkward, stilted hug. Jack collapsed into the contact, shaking uncontrollably. He just wished everyone else would go. He just wanted everyone to stop staring at him. Davey ran gentle fingers through his hair, hushing him with little “Sh, sh,” noises.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Davey murmured. “Crutchie’s gonna be okay, Jackie. We’re gonna get through this.”

Jack almost choked out a laugh. David’s naivety couldn’t be helped--Crutchie had spent time in the Refuge, days where he was without help or support, growing weaker and weaker with every beating. It had been a good three years since Jack had been in there, and he wasn’t recovered. He wasn’t ever going to recover. How could David say with such certainty that Crutchie would be okay?

“I hope you’re right, Dave,” Jack said instead, voice thick with emotion. He curled his fingers into the stiff fabric of Davey’s vest, swallowing back another round of tears. “I hope you’re right.”

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palmett-hoes · 3 years

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Do you have any fan casts or strong takes/feelings on the foxes’ appearances? Fandom tends to use the same Pinterest models, which feels wrong to me.

i do in fact! i've actually been meaning to make a post about how i choose to write all of the foxes' ethnicities anyway

but yes i absolutely agree that the typical pinterest model types u generally see on edits is not how i see any of them. nor is reece king or froy gutierrez or lucky blue smith one of my FCs for anyone

for a lot of them i don't necessarily have a single specific FC so much as i have like,, a general impression of features that i will see on various different people, who all may look wildly different from each other or who may not even look how i see the character as a whole but do have a specific feature i associate with them. mostly it boils down to the Energy i get tbh and that's just a Feeling i cant even explain

fun fact im a tiny bit face blind so that might account for some of why i'm so all-over about this

may as well go chronologically. some of them i definitely have more thoughts on than others

1. Dan

ethnicity: Afro Native (Sioux)

features: medium dark skin. buzzcut, killer fade. she often styles it in waves. she's very butch, wears a lot of basketball and cargo shorts, tank tops and flannels and jerseys, hiking boots. skinny but muscular, with a very rectangular body shape. defined jaw. probably like 5'4 or 5'5

FC/Energy: sometimes i get some dan energy out of janelle monae but more butch. lotta dan energy out of samira wiley. lashana lynch

2. Kevin

ethnicity: a lot of things tbd, but he's pretty multi-ethnic. i like the idea of kayleigh being half- or a quarter-japanese in addition to irish because it gives her more of a reason to go to japan for her undergrad. wymack is from d.c. which is a majority black city for its actual residents, but i also like the idea of him being Pasifika/Hawaiian. HOWEVER - and this is pretty important to my read of kevin's character - he's white passing, and has been mostly treated as a white guy who tans his whole life, like occasionally asked if he's italian maybe. learning that his father was a Distinctly Not White Man was a big shock to him.

kristin kreuk, lindsay price, phoebe cates, and marie digby are all half-asian actresses i base kayleigh on

i suppose i base his story partially on broadway actress carol channing, who revealed publically that she was a quarter black when she was like 80 years old. though maybe wentworth miller, a biracial actor who knows his father is black but also doesn't know him, is more accurate to kevin's story. then keanu reeves is a white passing actor with asian ancestry

also none of these people look anything like how i picture kevin lol. kevin is just like,, a guy. handsome ig. but kind of in a CW character kind of way

actually

kevin looks exactly like young jason momoa

3. Andrew

ethnicity: kayin/karen from myanmar

features: fat and muscular, very wide and heavy. this blog is basically all andrew body type refs. medium-olive skin, has a bit of a greyish tinge that makes him look a bit eerie or unhealthy. deep set, droopy eyes; looks so tired. flat face with a low-bridged nose. crooked teeth, especially his canines. natural hair black-ish but he bleaches it light blond. has the beginnings of martial artist punching callouses in his knuckles

FC/Energy: holy shit the characters i feel have Andrew Energy are all over the place. pedro pascal. babe ruth (yes fr). oddjob (harold sakata) from goldfinger. the jinn (mousa kraish) from american gods. gaear grimsrud (peter stormare) from fargo. takeshi kovacs (joel kinnaman) from altered carbon. and i wanna be clear, it's these characters specifically, and generally NOT the actors outside of that specific role. except pedro ❤️

4. Matt

ethnicity: cuban

appearance: matt has more of an Energy than specific features to me rn. that energy is Warm. he has that Warm bro jock dude energy. kind of a marvel hero build, hunky and muscular. very rectangular face. has this haircut:

5. Aaron

i get to cut myself some slack and not go AS in depth about aaron because he and andrew are identical twins

ethnicity: kayin/karen from myanmar

appearance: similar build to andrew, less confident and casual posture and body language. less apathetically murderous and more emotive expressions. better teeth bc his mom took him to the dentist. yes also bleaches his hair

celebrities: probably a lot like the difference between the characters and the actors. andrew is the characters and aaron is how the actors actually look. idk ive never looked at someone and thought 'hey! looks like aaron!'

6. Seth

ethnicity: have been going with half-vietnamese. considering looking into various south asian possibilities like pakistani

appearance: string bean build. that's all i have to offer

7. Allison

ethnicity: allison's very up in the air for me. she and seth are the two foxes i feel fine with being white, but im committing to having no white foxes sooo. i would say i generally see her as either half-middle eastern or chinese

appearance: plus sized and hourglass shaped. heart shaped face. taller, like 5'8 or 5'9. she has a pretty fraught history with her appearance and her parents payed for/pressured her into getting a nose job to have a 'prettier' nose. she also bleaches her hair blonde. she gets it done at a salon tho the twinyards do it in their bathroom

FC/Energy: elle king and nadia aboulhosn are my main inspos for her, esp body type but nadia esp in Vibes

8. Nicky

ethnicity: multi-ethnic. his mother is southern mexican Indigenous, possibly oaxacan. his father is mixed white/kayin

appearance: definitely takes after his mother while his father is white passing. dark brown skin, warm undertones. slightly stocky build. tall ovular head and thin aquiline nose. he's kind of just,, the opposite of the twins ig, so like their facial features look very different, which is a big part of why people don't make the connection between him and the twins alongside the difference in their skin tones, heights, and builds. nicky's build and features are very vertically-oriented, with a tall head, narrow-set eyes, thin nose with a high bridge, etc. the twins are horizontally-orienged, with broad, flat faces, wide-set eyes, wide noses with a low bridge, etc.

FC/Energy: yalitza aparicio, not a guy but one of the few Mexican Indigenous stars in the film industry and i really like her features for nicky. she's oaxacan

9. Renee

ethnicity: Black. african american

appearance: plus sized, circular/apple body shape. round face. dark skin. microlocs to a bit past her chin, bleached white and dyed at the ends. she and allison go to the salon together. femme but plain style, a lot of blouses and long skirts, practical shoes. knuckle callouses. about 5'6

FC/Energy: dominique fishback. tracie thoms, esp in RENT. gabourey sidibe. nicole byer, but not in Energy. brandy, for some reason, probably bc i think she has very serene Energy and is a little bit otherworldly. like if brandy played arwen or galadriel from lotr it would make perfect sense to me, and that's the Renee Energy™️

10. Neil

ethnicity: mixed. Black/Jewish on both sides. his father is polish ashkenazi and afro-brazilian. his mother is Black British and algerian jewish

appearance: very... sharp. like sharp all over. does that make sense? sharp features, sharp face shape, sharp angles to his body. he's got what i vaguely think of as a 'basketball build' not meaning tall but meaning very rangy and angular and lean. all limbs. seth has a similar build. lighter brown skin. he has waardenburg syndrome which is actually where he gets he gets his eye color, and his eyes are very large and widely spaced as well. freckles freckles freckles. freckles everywhere. 4a hair but at least during canon it's not very healthy and thus the curls aren't well-defined. he grows it out long enough to tie back and starts taking better care of it in post-canon. wonky, slightly crooked teeth, with a gap between the fronts

FC/Energy: now neil i actually have a ton for. mostly models which im a lil ashamed of bc i do try to draw more from athletes. alton mason is a main body type ref. mugsy bogues is good to see what i mean about the basketball build without the height. here're the boys: cykeem white, luka sabbat, désiré mia, Leo Hoyte-Egan, dylan hasselbaink, this beautiful stock photo model i've never been able to track down

i think about him every. goddamn. day.

in terms of like,, real ppl and not models: corbin bleu, especially during Jump In. figure skater elladj balde. rayan "ray ray" lopez from mindless behavior. A$AP Rocky a lil bit, maybe i just like his hairstyle idk

two more models i think are important: carissa pinkston and ralph souffrant

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silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 37

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers

The vast sitting area of the rooms was where Loki and you spent the rest of the night. It was a comfortable place, clad in silks and velvets, but there was a certain tension in the air that prevented you from enjoying it fully.

The sounds coming from outside, mostly from the wilderness of gardens beyond the balcony. They were nothing of what you might've experienced on Earth. The wild shrieks followed by soft cooing and voices unnervingly similar to child's laughter sent shivers down your spine whenever you tried to imagine what sort of creature might make them.

And how close it was.

There was fruit left on the table in a large bowl polished to the point of mirroring whatever came close to it. Some of them resembled in shape what you knew from Earth, but there were many that didn't.

You reached for a yellow roundish one and peeled the skin off. It had a sour taste of overripe mush.

Loki munched on small blue berries while he sat by the fire. He did his best to remain calm, but his foot kept twitching nervously every now and then.

"How many assassinations have you been through?" you asked when you sat next to him. He turned to let you put your head on his knees.

"Two for political reasons, back on Asgard. Some idiots thought they could wipe out the ruling dynasty and take over. There was one more when Thor and I have been sent as ambassadors to a place newly conquered and visibly unhappy about it. And one when I just didn't get along with some noble. To this day I have no idea why," he stated with a smile that said otherwise.

His finger followed the plane of your brow tenderly.

"Sounds like you were a dick to the wrong person. You have that effect on people."

"...could be."

A soft knock at the door ended the moment. You looked through the balcony. The colors began to shift.

A man you'd never seen before waited for you in the corridor. You weren't sure if he was a guard, but the thin, needle-like sword by his side suggested so. Or maybe no one there felt safe anymore.

Loki took your hand as you followed the silent man. He was as tall as the High Prince and the Queen, but of a slender build, almost as if he would break should any pressure be applied to his bones. What startled you the most was that you were finally able to see him clearly. The shadows still seemed to cling to him as a second skin, but there was no blurriness that made your head hurt like yesterday.

His sharp and cold eyes noticed you watching him. There was no softness to his features. The untamed darkness of his skin shifted wildly as a storm front would swallow the sky in endless hunger.

He guided you through winding paths between the pillars in shades of off-gray, partially hidden under the climbing ropes of tiny flowers. The breeze snuck between them, careful as to not make a sound.

The man led you to a terrace bathed in shadow from overhanging roses. Their thick thorns and sturdy branches intertwined savagely, forming a close-packed, unbreakable surface.

"High Prince." Loki bowed his head toward the lord waiting underneath the roses. You quickly followed suit. .

The guard left you without a word, walking away on silent, bare feet.

The High Prince wore a tunic of deep blues and intricate patterns of interlaced branches, or maybe animals, or maybe spiders with their long, thin legs creeping from behind whatever tried to run. The design shifted whenever you thought you finally grasped it. You turned your eyes away before it became impossible.

"Despite the outrage among my people," he said in a tone rich with shimmering starlight, "I still hope this mess can be solved bloodlessly. And quickly."

His head was close to the concentrated woven wall of thorns and roses above him. The Prince didn't seem to bother staying careful. His horns, painted with a silver dye, glinted sharply.

"We'll do our best," Loki promised. "What happened on the day of the murder?"

"Nothing beyond the usual. Asgard's ambassador had taken a liking to our library, and spent most of his days there, along with one of the librarian's assistants. And then one day, they were found right there, bloodied and cold." His hand moved. The long, spindly fingers were tipped with claws.

He motioned towards a niche under the overhanging roses. When you first entered the balcony, you thought it was bathed in dense shadow. But shadows could never be red.

"The lord had of course faded by the time his remains were found, and not much was left of him. We have moved the Asgardian’s… body to the rooms he used to occupy, and spelled it to remain intact had you any need to investigate it."

"We are terribly sorry for the loss," Loki said, watching the dark splotches of dried blood. Judging by their expanse, no one bothered to clean them.

You wondered if, in a world where its inhabitants simply faded, and their life energy was returned to the core of their world, they were surprised to see such a mess left. You looked up at the roses in full bloom, their flowers meaty and wide open to the endless light of the sky without sun.

The Prince followed your gaze.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" For the first time since arriving, he addressed you. "I have never seen them bloom. The assistant's link to the core wasn't strong, but even it was enough to revive a part of it."

Despite the warmth of the castle, you shivered. There was nothing human in the eyes regarding you with calculated care.

"We'll do our best to bring this matter to a swift end," Loki said, taking a casual step ahead, cutting through that stare. "And investigate everything thoroughly."

The smile he wore like an armor was edged and unpleasant. In a place where thoughts shaped reality, words could be knives, used carefully and meticulously.

"I hope so."

The High Prince left the balcony, his horns scratching the unyielding surface of roses. One of them was cut, and rained down in tears of red petals. The spiraling patterns of the lord's tunic seemed to look at you as he walked into the bright corridors with his hands clasped behind his back. There was something wrong with the shadows circling beneath his feet.

You let out a breath you hadn’t noticed you were holding. "I try really hard, but the longer we stay here, the harder it gets to find at least one normal thing in this place."

"I promise that once we're done here, I'll show you a world less… corrupted."

"I honestly can't wait."

You walked over to the place where two people you'd never get to know had their lives ended. There was nothing special about the crumbling stone, corroded by the passing of time and the shifting currents of energy in the air.

Loki reached into the depths of his magic in hope of finding any trace of whoever was behind it. But the Edge's magic was wild and tangled, and whoever paid a visit there, left no magical footprint.

Loki came closer and reached over your shoulder. The curtain of roses lifted a little, showing a hole where the balcony's railing should've been. Beneath it, the castle's wall was in a rough state, with pieces missing. You both looked down through it, toward the ground.

"I may not be an expert climber," you said, "but I have a feeling getting on this balcony through there wouldn't really be a problem."

"I am an expert climber, especially when it comes to castles," Loki judged the distance and crumbled stone, "and it definitely wouldn't. The only question is, why not actually use the stairs?"

"If I was a 7 foot tall High Prince with murderous intent, I'd prefer to stay out of people's sight too. And if I knew the whereabouts of the most hated person in my kingdom, I don't think it'd be hard to sneak into the place he passes on his way from the library every day."

"That sounds oddly specific, darling, and almost as if you suggest that the most important lord on the Edge wanted to murder that ambassador, but not in a way that would immediately start a war. Why do it sneakily and request an investigation? That sounds like extra steps leading nowhere."

"That is a hole in my theory," you admitted, walking away from the dried swaths of blood. "But you have to admit he acts a little off. Literally everything is suspicious about him. And it would actually make sense if he started murdering people in order to keep himself from fading. You've seen what it already did to some roses. If he used more people..."

You leaned on the railing and Loki followed. The gardens the balcony overlooked were a tangled chaos of branches, flowers, and trees leaning heavily to the sides, as if in the middle of moving. Huge statues of people you had no knowledge about rose through them, staring with blind eyes. If anyone wanted to use them as cover to get to the wall, it wouldn't be a problem. But what for?

You put your head on Loki's shoulder and felt his arm wrap around your waist.

"My theory makes no sense," you said into the leather of his armor.

"We don't have enough clues yet to make a sound one. Don't worry about it, we just got here."

He sent you a soft smile, one he rarely let anyone see. It often caught you off-guard with how much tenderness could be found in his smallest gestures. It was a relief to have someone by your side, wherever you went and whatever you had to deal with. There was something reassuring with knowing that even in the vast expanse of the universe, you weren't alone.

"Thank you," you muttered into his lips softly.

Standing so close, you felt the moment his surprise shifted into something else.

Loki pulled you closer into the kiss, with need and joy digging his fingers into the nape of your neck. He didn't force you, though, and when for the briefest moment something else caught your eye, he didn't stop you moving away.

His lips were pink and the breath they caught, ragged. With heavy lids, Loki followed your gaze towards the gardens behind you.

The Queen stood as still as if she already were one of the statues overlooking the gardens and the narrow, gravel paths winding between them. Her gown was made out of silk as ethereal and delicate as moonlight, and on anyone else, it would look regal and grand. But the fading was a cruel destiny, and one that paid no favor to those afflicted. The Queen clad in silks and jewelry like falling stars was barely there, gray despite the light bathing the world. Despite the remnants of life still dwelling deep inside her.

Her eyes were empty to the home around her, no recognition or emotion showing on her face. She looked at a patch of flowers climbing over one of the statues, but it was uncertain if she actually saw them.

An appropriate distance away, another figure stood. It was a woman with a headpiece covering her squat, stunted horns like morning mist on a spiderweb. A scar ran down her right cheek, old and badly healed. Her eyes were trained on the Queen, but her pose was stooped and bored. She must've been a guard delegated to ensure the well-being of the fading ghost of the Queen.

"I might've just shifted into detective mode, because something is telling me that maybe we should think of looking for witnesses," you whispered.

Loki shivered, feeling your breath brush his neck in a gentle caress.

"Talking to her would be considered a great offense," he said with a slight rasp to his voice. "The ones who are fading are supposed to be left alone to reconcile with the core as their essence fades. It's a tradition, and an important rule."

"When do we break it?"

Loki eyed the guard.

"...once she's alone. It shouldn't be difficult to find her, even though everyone seems to overlook her."

"And that's why she could be a witness to so many things," you said with newfound hope. Something clenched in Loki's chest as he watched your face lit up. It was a beautiful sight.

"Looks like we have a plan." He offered you his arm. "But before we spit on tradition, how about we pay a little visit to our lovely corpse?"

"Of course." You took it. "I can't wait to see what he has to offer."

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #Loki Laufeyson #loki laufeyson reader insert #loki imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu

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lonestarbabe · 3 years

Text

Holding Out For a Hero

Chapter 9: Wish I Could Forget

[AO3]

T.K. makes a confession, Carlos deals with his manipulative dad.

---

You were something else I will admit

I remember what you told me

I only wish I could forget

Carlos

They’d been on the bus all day, and as much as he tried to keep track, Carlos couldn’t remember what the next location was. He’d find out when he got there. T.K. had warned him that it would happen like that; the days would stretch together, and so would the locations. Carlos hadn’t believed him. He figured there was no way that he could forget something as simple as where he was going, but when you were almost constantly on the road bouncing from location to location, the places blurred, and the highway went on without end. I never guessed the tour would feel so long or that riding across the country could be so exhausting.

Carlos wasn’t alone in that sentiment. Everyone he’d spoken to had agreed that tour was exhausting for everyone involved once the high of the excitement started to fade into a loose routine but a routine nonetheless. Their days were closely planned, leaving few moments for excursions and sightseeing. Energy shots and coffee kept them going through the long days and irregular hours. Carlos missed home, especially when sleep was elusive. He hadn’t been the best at keeping up with his friends, but tour could be lonely, so he’d call Michelle, who was equally bad at keeping in touch, or some of his buddies, or even his sister. Everyone was friendly, and it wasn’t like he had any issues with his coworkers, but they were busy. And Carlos had shrugged off invites with the crew to hang out with T.K. instead, partially because he knew that when T.K. got lonely, he spiraled. And I want to do my part to prevent that from happening.

But his commitment to spending time with T.K. wasn’t just about T.K. Mostly, Carlos spent so much time with T.K. because T.K. was a good friend. Carlos could spend hours listening to T.K. tell tales of his storied life. Carlos liked to tell stories of his own, too, and one of his favorite things was eliciting that easy, full-chested laugh from T.K., who usually employed a practiced laugh that was polished but shallow. Carlos loved the way T.K.’s face lit up when he brought T.K. colorful doughnuts. The doughnuts from the morning’s bakery stop were half-eaten, the most sprinkled ones already gone. The half-empty box made Carlos smile.

The bus was eerily quiet. No one considered bus rides passive time. As the bus plodded down the highway, everyone kept busy ordinarily, making calls and double-checking that all the arrangements were in order, but Carlos and T.K. were alone. T.K. had barely moved, let alone do any work. Carlos’ favorite bus activity was when T.K. would strum his guitar and write songs, and Carlos would pretend not to listen closely, while T.K. would hide in his bunk. T.K.’s private songwriting was more personal than the stuff he put on his albums, and T.K. trusted Carlos enough to play those intimate pieces near him.

There was no music playing in that music, not even over the expensive speakers that T.K. loved to use when the silence made him antsy. T.K. was mute, bouncing his leg and staring out at the stretch of gray sky. T.K. looked cozy in his pink cotton hoodie, but he kept tugging at it as if it were too tight or itchy.

“You look anxious,” Carlos pointed out, sitting next to T.K. on the couch. His eyebrows scrunched together as he searched T.K.’s face for signs of sickness, sadness, or homesickness, but he couldn’t recognize the meaning of that particular facial expression. His eyes were too sad to be angry, and his jaw was too clenched for him just to be sad. T.K.’s face was a combination of things that Carlos couldn’t quite decode. Someday, I’ll be able to look at his face and immediately know what he’s thinking. I’ll memorize the shapes his face makes. I’ll learn what he’s trying to express, even if he doesn’t know how to express it.

T.K. startled, eyes flitting to Carlos’. “Just thinking,” T.K. avoided Carlos’ eyes and turned his head back to the sky, which was unusual for someone who intensely made eye contact to the point that it made some people uncomfortable. Carlos never looked away. Carlos’s phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it— barely felt it— his focus on intently on T.K.

“Care to share?” Carlos prodded gently. He knew better than to pressure T.K. to talk. If T.K. spoke about his feelings, it was on his own time, but it usually took some prodding before T.K. would open up.

“I don’t know.” T.K. shifted a few inches away from Carlos, pulling his arms closer to his body and looking like a figurine of the larger-than-life presence the world knew.

“What’s wrong?” Carlos tried once more, and if T.K. didn’t give him anything after that, he wouldn’t push anymore.

“You,” T.K. admitted, biting his lip.

“Me?” Carlos’ eyes widened. “Did I do something?” He searched his mind for something he might’ve done that would’ve offended T.K., but things had been easy between them lately. T.K. had been going out less, and he seemed to be doing better, which took some of the stress away that filled Carlos’ voice with tension.

“You’re perfect.” T.K. shook his head. “No, you haven’t done anything bad.” Then, what did I do? “It’s what I did.”

“What did you do? T.K., I’m a little lost here.”

“You’re going to be mad.” Carlos wanted to shake T.K. and tell T.K. to spit it out already, but he chose to be patient.

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Not yet,” T.K. hedged.

Carlos leaned closer to T.K., palms getting sweaty. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. We’re friends.”

T.K scratched his neck. “Yeah, friends.” Why did he say it like that?

“Well, we are, aren’t we?” Carlos didn’t even want to imagine how he would feel if the answer was no.

“I hope so, but there are things about me that you don’t know.” T.K. took a breath. “And you might rethink things when you know.” T.K. was an expert at prolonging conversations to avoid giving answers.

“You don’t know everything about me either, and that’s fine.” Carlos had a whole history that he’d barely mentioned to T.K., and he didn’t plan on bringing it up because what was the point of bringing up the past when it was long gone. But if he asked, I’d tell him. “It’s okay if there are things you don’t want to tell me.” But I want to know everything.

“Carlos, there’s something I need to tell you,” he heard T.K. say, voice too soft. I know, T.K., so tell me.

Carlos’ heart stiffened. “T.K., you’re stalling.” Carlos nervously chuckled when T.K. didn’t respond right away. “The anticipation will probably be worse than the confession,” Carlos assured, and he was trying to convince himself as much as he was T.K.

T.K.

T.K.’s heart pounded in his chest, and he was more nervous telling Carlos the truth than he had ever been before a show. It was easy to perform in front of thousands of people he didn’t know. It was harder to come clean to someone he didn’t want to disappoint. The tone of Carlos’ voice made it even harder. He sounded so concerned, even though T.K. had never given him a reason to care that deeply.

“I messed up,” T.K. admitted, and the words reminded him of all the times he’d had to say that. He remembered times he had drank too much or taken too many pills and called Marjan thinking that he was dying. Every time he called, those events were impressed into her voice as she asked, “Are you okay?” right away instead of saying hello. Or when he’d walked two miles to Judd’s house, disoriented and shivering because he’d dramatically jumped into a pool after a fight with Alex. He’d been too mad to wait for a ride and too high to drive himself. Judd had made a threat against Alex before ushering T.K. inside and warming him up. He constantly let people down, and it wasn’t like Carlos didn’t know he was an addict, but it wasn’t something he liked to bring up, and he certainly wasn’t going to use the words for what he was.

“Are you okay?” Not, “What did you do this time?” or “Here we go again.” Carlos’ brown eyes were soft and caring. The words were those of a friend, not just someone paid to make sure T.K. didn’t fuck up any more than expected. He looked everyone with those cow eyes, but T.K. liked to think there was extra softness when Carlos looked at him. Maybe it was because T.K. was pathetic more than because Carlos actually liked him as a person.

“Don’t be so nice,” T.K. pleaded. He couldn’t stand Carlos being so friendly to him when he deserved misery that Carlos would never give him.

Carlos’ face fell. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m not okay as I’ve been making out,” which wasn’t much of a mystery for the people around T.K.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Carlos said dryly. “But recovery takes time. It’s okay to struggle sometimes.”

T.K. wanted to cry at the hope in Carlos’ eyes. He really thinks I’m getting better. He’s convinced that I want to change, but I don’t want to participate in my change. I want to sleep through getting better and wake up feeling sane. “You know how I talked a lot about my therapist?” He’d gone out of his way more times than he’d admit to mentioning his therapist so that Carlos would think it was for real. I can’t be trusted.

Carlos nodded. “Yeah, she seems nice.”

“I was just saying all that stuff to make you feel better. It’s not true.” There, he’d said it. He waited for the screaming that would follow, the “Why are you ruining your life?” in that same voice his mom always used when she realized having a kid was more than an eighteen-year commitment.

Confusion spread on Carlos’ face. “She isn’t nice?”

“No, she is nice. Well, I don’t know. I ditched my appointments.” He was quick to add. “I’m seeing another one now, but that’s a new thing..”

“Why did you make up all those stories? You could have told me the truth,” Carlos sounded devastated.

“You can yell at me,” T.K. told him. Yelling would have made T.K. feel better. He would have deserved it, a suitable penance for the sins he had committed, but Carlos wasn’t going to give him absolution in the way he wanted it.

“I’m not going to do that.”

“You should. I won’t listen if you don’t make me feel like the scum of the earth.” I might not even listen then, but I might feel better.

“Don’t be stupid,” Carlos snapped. He immediately looked apologetic “Sorry.” T.K. wanted him to go back to snappish comments. He didn’t want the normal, constrained Carlos who could keep his temper in check. He wanted a verbal lashing to get the anger out of the way and start working towards forgiveness. “Yelling won’t change the situation,” Carlos explained. “I’m not going to yell at you.”

“I’d feel better if you yelled at me than whatever approach you’re taking now.”

“I’d feel worse if I yelled, so just drop it.”

“I’m telling you that you can. It wouldn’t be immoral or anything if I’m asking you to do it.”

“No,” Carlos said, sounding disgusted at the idea. “I don’t want to be a part of your self-destructive spiral!”

“I’m not on a self-destructive spiral.” I’m not, T.K. tried to convince himself, but there was something about destroying himself that felt so right. The feeling of getting wasted wasn’t just about the high. He liked the fall too, the deterioration of self. Because destruction eases the bitterness, but I don’t want to hurt anyone other than me. The only problem was that his self-destruction didn’t just impact him. The people in his life, the ones he hadn’t pushed away or kept at a distance, hurt as he shoved himself closer to oblivion. Sometimes, he wanted to feel alive, while other times, he wanted to feel dead. The jury’s out on which I want to be. Who didn’t fantasize about the demise of the person they hated the most? It’s nice to let go, shirk responsibility, and leave my future up to fate.

“You might recognize it if you went to see a therapist,” Carlos said as a plea more than a scolding. The hurt T.K. caused had already spread to Carlos, and the thought made him hate himself more.

“I’m seeing one now.” T.K. quipped, We haven’t gotten to a self-destructive spiral yet.” It had only been one virtual session, but he’d scheduled another.

“I’m glad to hear that, T.K., but you still lied to me.”

“You seemed so happy when I told you I’d go to therapy. I didn’t want to ruin that.” The illusion of a functional T.K. Strand has always been the side of him that T.K. wanted Carlos to see because the real T.K. Strand is embarrassing, messy, and pathetic.

“I’d rather you be honest with me. You don’t need to spare my feelings. It’s hard for me to protect you when I don’t even know what’s going on with you.” T.K. didn’t even know what was going on with himself. And maybe that was why everyone was so insistent that he go to a professional. Professionals were supposed to help you sort all that out. But what if I’m beyond help?

Carlos

Carlos wanted to yell; he wouldn’t deny that anger was brimming in his chest, making him crazy with fear and anxiety. That’s all the anger was—the fear and anxiety that T.K. wasn’t okay— that I can’t protect him. Carlos had caught T.K. falling back into old habits occasionally— drugs, drinking, sex with dangerous-looking guys— but he’d thought T.K. had been doing better. They’d been spending a lot of time together, and T.K. had seemed, for the most part, okay. Carlos painfully wondered what other lies T.K. had told. Had the past few weeks been worse than he knew?

“I’m sorry, Carlos,” T.K. said. “I shouldn’t have lied to you.” No shit, Carlos thought. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t watch him fall apart and do nothing. He’s not doing well, but there’s nothing I can do to make him alright again. He has to do that himself.

Carlos took a breath, resisting the urge to snap again, but he was embarrassed at his earlier outburst. He hated that he lost control like that. “I shouldn’t have gotten so upset before. It’s your business how you handle your mental health,” Carlos said, fabricating the cool composure he needed for his own sanity. His voice was a cold front plowing through the tour bus. He wasn’t going to blow up and make a scene, but he wanted to. He wanted to respond with red hot fire. He wanted to ask T.K. why he had been so foolish and to tell him to get his shit together, but those words were his fear, and such words would only make T.K. defensive. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“I know, but you’re my friend.” Is this how friends treat each other? Carlos had never been the best at having balanced friendships, so he wasn’t sure.

“Why didn’t you go to see the therapist?” Why didn’t he at least give it a real try?

“I thought I didn’t need it. I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to need it. Or I didn’t want to commit.” T.K. sighed. “I have a lot of shit I need to confront, and I feel like I’m trying to find a few prized possessions in a crumbing house that I’ve filled with trash. And to get anywhere, I’ve got to clear the trash away piece by piece.”

“But you’re ready to try?” He wondered if T.K. had decided to go on his own or if Judd, Marjan, or one of his other friends had pushed him into it. “You chose to get help?”

“I did, but I’m not making any promises.”

Defeat tugged in Carlos’ chest. “You’re already leaving room to back out the minute things get too hard.” T.K. was already laying the groundwork for future excuses of why therapy didn’t work out, which made Carlos curious about how committed T.K. was to get better.

“It’s not like that. But I know myself. I can’t change. I’ll always ruin everything. I screwed up because that’s what I do, and the sooner you get used to that, the better because if you have expectations of me, you’re only going to be disappointed.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Carlos said, excess irritation creeping into his voice. There went his resolve to act detached. No matter how hard he tried to keep a level head, he was a passionate person. He cared about things, and apathy didn’t suit him. His passion got him in trouble. It got him ousted from the police force when he’d cared more about helping Michelle find her sister than his job, but it was part of him. He fell too fast, and he put too much of himself into anything he did. No matter how much passion carried him away, Carlos wasn’t going to yell. His voice would be impassioned, but he wouldn’t let his rage fully control him. I don’t want to be like my father.

“Like what? All of it is true. I’m always making a mess of my life.”

“Don’t act like you’re bound to screw up and try to push me away because you’re scared of letting anyone get too close. You don’t have to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. You get to make choices, and you can choose to put the work in to get better.”

“I’m trying to warn you.”

“I’m not expecting you to be perfect. I know you might have ups and downs, so don’t find a way out of this before you’ve even started.” I just want you to try. I can deal with anything as long as you try.

“You’re not listening,” T.K. sounded frustrated. “I’m trying to protect. I like you, and you don’t deserve this shitstorm.”

“Bullshit. You’re scared. This isn’t about keeping me safe. I’m a grown man, T.K., and I’ve had people disappoint me before. Many hurt me more than you ever could. Don’t turn this on me because I’m right here standing by your side. If you don’t want to be my friend, walk away, but don’t keep baiting me into doing.”

“That’s not what I want.” Then, why do you keep doing it?

“What do you want?”

“I want to be a person you can like, but the truth is I’m not even a person I can like.” Carlos’ stomach knotted. He wanted to pull T.K. into a hug and confess how much T.K. meant to him, but he resisted the selfish urge. He didn’t want to send the wrong signals (but he also knew if T.K. asked him for a hug, he wouldn’t be able to say no).

Before he could dispute T.K.’s words, Carlos’ phone started buzzing again, the noise sending fresh anger through him. His annoyance only increased when he saw that it was the same unknown number that had been calling him for a week. “Damn it, leave me alone,” he spat to the unanswered phone and tossed it to the couch. It bounced, and Carlos held his breath, but he was relieved when it didn’t fall to the floor.

T.K.

Well, that was weird. Seeing Carlos’ outburst had in some respects been a relief to T.K., but it also sent a shiver down T.K.’s spine because when Carlos gave such a reaction, you knew the situation had to be dreadful. “We’re a pair of perfectly okay people,” T.K. deadpanned.

“They’ve been calling me all day,” Carlos said apologetically. “I’m just frustrated.” He was back to being the constrained Carlos who acted as if problems rolled right off of him. “I’m not mad at you.” He’s always so quick to reassure me.

“I know, man. Telemarketers suck.” T.K. laughed. “They’re more persistent than my stans.”

The comment broke Carlos’ stoic expression, and a slight grin snuck onto his face. “I know that’s not true.”

“That one girl snuck into a trash can.” She was sweet, a little crazy, but hell, so am I!

“I think it was empty.”

“Still, a trashcan,” Carlos razzed. “Those kinds of things are a nightmare for security professionals.”

“She got her autograph, at least.”

“And I got gray hairs and an ulcer. When she popped out, I nearly lost it on her. She’s lucky you stepped in. I would have escorted her swiftly away without ever seeing you, and then I would have put her on the blacklist.”

“You’re overprotective. She wasn’t going to hurt me.” T.K. knew his fans didn’t want to hurt him, so he didn’t worry too much about his safety. Surely, there were people he didn’t like who he should worry about, but he had better things to do than fret over what other people might do. Carlos fretted enough for both of them.

“I’m as protective as I should be.” And I find “protective as I should be” very endearing.

“You know, Carlos. It’s okay to show how you feel sometimes. You don’t always have to act like things don’t bother you. It’s okay to be un-levelheaded. Ignoring emotions doesn’t make them go away. I should know.”

“It’s my job to be levelheaded.”

“You’re very good at it, but that’s not your job, Carlos. It’s your job to protect my body. You focus on saving that.” And I’d keep you around even if you didn’t do that. “As long as you don’t have to put your own in danger.”

“I would without thinking twice,” and T.K. felt his chest tighten at the thought. It’s not right to put him in danger for my safety. Crowd control is one thing, but any actual danger is off the table.

“Stay safe. I can’t lose you.”

“It’s unlikely it will come to that,” and the words that are implied but go unsaid are, “But if it comes to that, I know what I’ll choose.” The thought made T.K. sick.

“I can save myself,” T.K. asserted.

“Start by saving your mind.”

“We’ll see about that,” T.K. said before leaving to find his guitar. He needed some music therapy after that chat. I hope my stupid songs won’t drive Carlos crazy.

Carlos

It was late when Carlos’ phone rang again, the same unknown number on the screen. T.K. had gone to bed; he must’ve been tired to go so early. The number was an Austin area code, so on the off chance that it was someone he knew, he answered.

“What do you want?” expecting to hear a scam caller.

“Hey, Carlito,” a familiar voice crooned, sounding smooth and smug. Carlos nearly hung up. “Nice to talk to you too.”

“Dad? How did you get this number?” Son of a bitch has probably gotten himself arrested again and needs bail, or he’s gambled away his grocery money. Maybe he has a friend whose been accused of some terrible deed he didn’t do. Maybe a con went wrong, and he’s trying not to get beat up.

“Your sister.” Damn it, Carlos thought. This is the last thing I need.

“I told her that I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Don’t be like that. I’m your old man.”

“Why did you call?” Carlos persisted. The sooner he knew what his dad wanted, the sooner he could tell him no and hang up. I’m too curious to hang up just yet, and it’s been so long since I’ve heard his voice. It sounds just like it did half a decade ago.

“How’s Taylor?” He hasn’t gotten better at small talk, has he?

“Didn’t you hear we broke up?” Carlos said acerbically.

“How’d that happen?” Carlos could practically hear his dad smiling at the news, probably happy that Carlos’ life had taken a turn towards the awful. Still, while the breakup had been complicated and heartbreaking, Carlos was more satisfied without Taylor in his life. Taylor leaving him had been a relief, even if there were some feelings of sadness and loss.

“Long story short, I got fired, he dumped me, and he blew up the police chief’s car after a bender. So, things didn’t work out, which you would know if you didn’t think the whole world revolved around you.” Carlos waited for a beat. “Now you know the whole sordid saga. What about you? Have you been arrested lately?”

“You’re awfully bitter for being so young.” No shit. You made my childhood a shitshow, and I always had to be there to help you out of your messes while you wouldn’t lift a finger to help me out of mine.

“Cut the, ‘How are you, son?’ talk. Why’d you call?”

“You always expect the worst in me, but I’m not the bad guy.”

Carlos wasn’t afraid of his father anymore, not more than the shadow of fear that sometimes crept up on him with memory. There was part of him that still wanted to cower and try to please his dad so he could get his father’s love, but he had to stay strong and remember that Gabriel Reyes was never going to give him what he wanted. He wasn't going to go back down that spiral. “Who is the villain, Dad. You’re the one who belittled me for years and manipulated me into doing what you wanted.” He kept his voice hushed to avoid disturbing T.K., but he knew that his dad could hear the venom in his voice.

“You haven’t heard what I wanted, but you’re dredging up all the ways I ruined your life.” His dad used his conman voice, the one he always used when he was desperately striving for Carlos’ loyalty. “You forget all the things that I did for you, like making sure food was on the table, and a roof was over your head.” The classic guilt trip had once made Carlos feel guilt and shame, but he knew what manipulation looked like, and he’d worked through all that in his therapy sessions.

“You know what? I’m not listening to this. You’re not going to mess with my head and convince me that I’m somehow in the wrong. Goodbye, Dad. Don’t call again,” Carlos said before hanging up the phone. He didn’t need to listen to his father’s manipulative response to know what he would’ve said. He’d heard it a million times.

Carlos laid back on the couch, staring at the bus ceiling, defeated. He wiped his eyes before the tears could fall, and he remembered how his dad always used to say he was too sensitive to make it in the real world and that he needed to toughen up. Maybe he was sensitive, but at least he wasn’t an insensitive asshole who no one genuinely loved.

He put a hand over his head and tried to tune out the overwhelming feelings. Why does he keep making me feel this way? There’s a reason I kept him out of my life, and it needs to stay that way. I need to talk to Lola and talk to her about giving him my number. That shouldn’t have happened. If he keeps bothering me, I might have to change my number. Before he could contemplate further, a weight settled at the end of the couch by Carlos’ feet. “Are you okay?” T.K. asked.

“Sorry I woke you,” Carlos said, not lifting his head to look at T.K. I’m such a loser.

“I can’t sleep, anyway.”

“How much did you hear?” No matter how quiet Carlos had tried to be, they were still on a bus, and the sound carried through the curtains splitting the sections.

Carlos lifted his head enough to see T.K. shrug. “Not much. I had my noise-canceling headphones on, but you sounded upset, so I thought you might want company.” I love this man, the thought flashed through Carlos’ mind before he could be consciously aware of it.

“They aren’t very good at noise-canceling, are they?” Carlos tried to joke, but his voice was flat, and T.K.’s eyes darkened. I can’t even pretend that I’m halfway okay.

“I guess not,” T.K. said evenly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The conversation felt oddly reminiscent of the one he’d had earlier with T.K. “My dad called.”

“You don’t get along, right?” T.K.’s words were cautious.

“That’s an understatement. We don’t talk. I wouldn’t have answered if I knew it was him.”Carlos knew dad-talk was hard for T.K., so he proceeded carefully. “Not all dads are heroes. Mine is the opposite of a hero.”

“What is yours?”

“A nasty bastard, a cheat, and a con artist.” And that’s to put it nicely. “He’s a slimy coward who will use anyone he meets for his own selfish purposes.”

“I hate him already.” T.K.’s face grew dark. “Did he hurt you?” T.K. rolled his lip inward. “You don’t have to answer.”

“It’s okay. He never hit me or anything.” But he messed with my head, and he made me think that I could never be good enough. He made my relationship with my sister tense because she can’t understand why I can’t talk to him. She’s still falling for his dastardly tricks. Those tricks are probably how he got my number.

“I didn’t ask if he hit you.”

“He hurts everyone who gets close, so I don’t take it personally.”

“Hurt is always personal,” T.K. said, the pain on Carlos’ face all he needed to know. “I’m sorry.”

“My dad said never apologize for bastards. It’s the only thing he got right.”

“What did he want?”

“Nothing good. I hung up before he could say too much.”

“That’s probably for the best.”

“I think so.” Carlos shrugged. “I don’t think knowing what he wanted would have made me feel better.”

“You mentioned once that you missed him sometimes. Are you missing him now?”

“You remember that?” Carlos looked surprised. “No, I’m not missing him. I’m missing a version of him that only ever existed in my wishes.”

“I get it. The things I miss most about my dad are the things we’ll never get to have—imagined wedding days and playing with my kids. Things like that.”

“Yeah, I used to want him to change so badly. I wanted a normal dad. I thought that if I could be everything he wanted in a son, that somehow that would be enough. But it never was. He only cared about how much I could do for him. He still only calls me when he needs a favor.”

“Did he say what he needed?”

“I don’t know. We didn’t get that far. Probably money. Or he wants me to call in a favor.”

“That sucks.”

“I’m used to it. It’s been years since we’ve talked, so I don’t have to deal with him normally.”

“He’s probably dying,” T.K. said with a sympathetic voice. Carlos hadn’t thought of that. Perhaps, he was dying. He probably wants me to give him an organ. But what if he really was dying? Would Carlos have wanted to talk to him then?

The thought sent a traitorous blast of sadness through Carlos. “I don’t think so. He would have started with that and would have gone straight into the guilt trip.”

“Why else would he call after so long? I’m not saying to make amends with that asshole or anything, but it’s something to consider.”

“I don’t care if he’s dying.”

“Maybe you don’t want to care,” T.K. pointed out. “But you wouldn’t have that look on your face if you really didn’t.”

Carlos had been caught, and he didn’t have the energy to keep denying the truth. “Good bullshit meter.” Carlos yawned. The call left him confused and depleted.

T.K.

T.K.’s bullshit meter was finicky at best, but Carlos was easy to read. “Not really. I just know you, Carlos. You’ve got the world’s biggest heart.” I should know. He’s found a way to like me.

“I don’t know about that.”

T.K. imagined kissing Carlos’ chest to impress the answer right where it mattered, but he settled for mere words because anything more could only live in frivolous daydreams.“I do.” Carlos looked so forlorn that T.K. couldn’t resist something more physical. Kisses were out, but friends could comfort each other without it being weird. “Let me help.”

“Help?” T.K. nodded and pulled his body up the couch so that he could squeeze himself closer to Carlos. “What are you doing?” Carlos asked with a bemused expression, but he scooted his body over to make more room for T.K. to fit in the sliver of space next to Carlos.

“Reminding that you aren’t alone.” An insecure pang struck T.K. Maybe he was going about this wrong. “This isn’t weird, is it?”

Carlos inhaled. He thought for a few beats and then shook his head. “It’s nice.”

“Sometimes, you just need to be close to someone, you know?” T.K. reassured. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than a friend giving another friend comfort.”

“You’re practically on top of me,” Carlos laughed.

“I can move,” T.K. said, voice sinking. Am I making a fool of himself? Can he tell that I think about him in ways I shouldn’t? Does he see that I more than like him? T.K. felt like a little boy with a schoolyard crush. It would never amount to anything, but the mere thought delighted him. Maybe I just like that he’s good to me. Is someone nice to me all it takes for me to fall in love? Am I that pathetic? But he knew it was more than that. Something about Carlos made him feel more secure than he ever had, and it wasn’t related to Carlos being his bodyguard.

As he shifted to get up, Carlos grabbed his arm and turned onto his side, pulling T.K.’s back against his chest. T.K. memorized the exuberant feeling of being so close to Carlos because he didn’t know when it would end. “Don’t. It’s been a while since I’ve had anyone to hold.”

“You can’t tell me that the whole crew isn’t all over you.” T.K. said with a grin. “That cute smile and those cow eyes.”

“Cow eyes?” Carlos asked, indignant, and T.K.’s chest bloomed with warmth.

“They’re adorable.” T.K. was weak to those eyes, as anyone would rightfully be.

Carlos rolled his eyes. “Don’t ruin the moment, my little teddy bear,” Carlos teased.

“Carlos!” T.K. blushed.

“Now you know how it feels.”

“I was complimenting you.” Carlos made T.K. feel safe, and T.K. wanted to make Carlos feel safe too.

A moment passed, a snug, easy moment. “Thank you, T.K.,” Carlos said so sincerely that T.K. thought he might melt. He turned over so that he was facing Carlos; their bodies were pressed close, and together they were warm and strong. He held eye contact, testing if he could make Carlos look away with his intensity, but Carlos didn’t look away.

“Thanks for what? Comparing you to a cow?”

Carlos laughed, shaking his head. “For being here.”

“We’re on a bus. There aren’t many places I can go. Besides, you’re literally here for me all the time.”

“It’s my job,” Carlos brushed the comment off, as he often did when T.K. became too praising of Carlos’ efforts.

“You made a list of the best bakeries in the country and make the bus driver when we pass one so you can get me doughnuts.”

“He doesn’t mind. I feed him doughnuts for his troubles.” Carlos shrugged. “I like doughnuts too.” Carlos yawned again.

“But you get them for me.”

“Friends give friends doughnuts.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said drowsily. T.K. said nothing until he felt Carlos’ breaths evening.

“I love doughnuts,” T.K. whispered to check if Carlos was sleeping. “I love you,” T.K. said, his heart fluttering with the admission. He laughed to himself. Even as Carlos let out soft snores, chest rising and falling evenly with the rhythm of sleep, the words were hard to say, but he meant each one of them.

#holding out for a hero #911 lone star #911 lone star fic #my fics #elise writes #wip

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lambroseforlife · 4 years

Text

Well, this has been sitting in my drafts for a while now. After sudden renewed inspiration and a bunch of half-done research over a year later, here goes nothing. I felt that the best setup for this would take place between books 2 and 3 so maybe like 2 months after returning from Egypt? For those that are squeamish and dont like stuff about periods then duh, skip reading this.

— — —

'Blast it all!' I huffed as I dropped the stack of boxes on the floor. Pretty sizable ones, by the noticeable thump as they hit the ground.

'Mr Linton.' I heard a curt voice. Looking up, I stared into a pair of cold, familiar eyes.

'Yes, sir?' I grimaced at him. It was much easier than smiling when your ribs were aching and lungs wheezing for air.

'You are two minutes and twenty-three seconds slower than you were yesterday.' Snapping his pocket watch closed, he tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket. His gaze flickered back to me. 'I do not pay you for your tardiness.'

'No, sir.' I beamed. Well, I tried to anyway. 'Just for my delightful company.'

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. His mouth parted slightly as if to retort but then closed.

I made the mistake of looking into that glacial, intense stare of his and felt trapped. But I didn't want to escape. Not when I felt like I could forget my worries and problems from the rest of the world when it was just him and me. His gaze held mine and I had to suppress the urge to shiver. Not out of fear, though.

A flash of images came to mind. Soft lips melded to mine. Ripped clothing on a hotel bed. Cold desert nights spent in strong, comforting arms.

Snapping out of my daze, I shook my head.

'I...' I cleared my throat and glanced away. 'I better get a move on. Wouldn't want to waste time.'

Without waiting for a reply, I hurried back into my office and closed the door without looking back.

I met my reflection in the glass windows overlooking the tall buildings of London on a typical gloomy morning. If I squinted hard enough, I could see a blush forming on her cheeks.

Get a hold of yourself, Lilly!

This past month I had been polishing my acting skills. By that, I meant pretending that certain things in Egypt had never happened. In general, both my employer and I had smoothly settled into a routine that, well, made it seem that Egypt had never happened once we both returned back to London two months ago. A bit too smoothly, actually.

Although there were times when our gazes would linger on each other for one moment too long just like earlier...

Enough, Lilly! Back to work.

Marching back to my desk, I sat down and stretched. What was wrong with me today? I slept mostly decently last night, save for waking up late with some soreness in my lower back—

Plink.

Opening the metal tube on my desk, I unfolded the paper.

Mr Linton,

It is already thirty-two minutes past nine and I fail to see my daily correspondence on my desk.

Rikkard Ambrose

So we were back to communicating through notes now, were we? Flipping it over, I picked up the fountain pen on my desk and began to write.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

On it immediately, sir.

Yours, Lilly Linton

I folded the note and placed it back into the tube, pulling the lever. I opened one of the desk drawers and found the pile of letters Mr Stone had left for me to sort through. Pulling them out, I began to go through them when I heard a gurgling noise. I looked around, confused. Then I heard it again.

What was that noise? It sounded like it was coming from someone's— oh.

As if in protest, my stomach growled even louder.

Right. Another thing I forgot to do this morning after waking up late.

Well, times like these called for extra measures. Opening another desk drawer, I found out my treasured stash of chocolate and grabbed a bar.

Not exactly the healthiest option for breakfast but so what? It was chocolate!

Unwrapping the bar, I began to sort through the stack of letters for Mr Ambrose's correspondence for the day. I managed to finish going through it in under five minutes too— both the stack of letters and the bar of chocolate.

No sooner after sitting back down at my desk once I passed the letters through the letter slot at Mr Ambrose's door, I heard another plink.

I removed the letter from the tube and picked it up, beginning to read.

Mr Linton,

Why are there brown fingerprints on my correspondence?

Rikkard Ambrose

I frowned. What brown fingerprints was he referring to? Setting the note down on the table, I was about to reach for the charity letters in the waste paper basket when I noticed something odd about the note.

Upon further inspection, there were brown fingerprints on there too! But how did it get there? Where was it coming from?

Wait...

Slowly, I looked at my fingers and then at the wrapper of the finished chocolate bar. Then my fingers. Then the wrapper again.

Oops.

Wiping my fingers and the pen on my trousers, I thought about how to explain my slight predicament.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

There was a small accident while sorting your correspondence. I fixed it immediately so it shall not happen again.

Yours, Lilly Linton

That should suffice. I sent the letter through the tube and took out the small appointment book with all of Mr Ambrose's scheduled meetings. I had barely opened it to the current week when I heard another plink.

Mr Linton,

What do you mean by 'small accident'?

Rikkard Ambrose

Darn! I thought I had gotten away with it. I picked up the pen to write again.

Dear Mr Ambrose,

Just a small, teensy-weensy, tiny incident that is barely of any consequence. Really, no need to worry yourself. I've taken care of it.

Yours, Lilly Linton

Not even ten seconds had passed until the next plink.

Mr Linton,

Do not test my patience. Tell me what happened.

Rikkard Ambrose

Blast! He wasn't going to let this go, was he? Chewing my lip, I picked up the pen with sweaty palms. What to write this time?

Dear Mr Ambrose,

The aforementioned incident was minor, completely inconsequential. Not even a small accident, really. Just a small inconvenience involving chocolate.

Yours, Lilly Linton

With bated breath and my heart ready to jump out of my chest, I pulled the lever.

Perhaps he would move on from it?

Ha, as if! This was Mr Ambrose I was talking about here. Getting the Queen to dance on the rooftops of Buckingham Palace in her undergarments would have been more likely to happen.

As if on cue, icy silence radiated from behind the door to his office. The kind of silence that preceded judgment from kings before they gave the order for executions.

Now to any person, silence was just silence. But not with Mr Ambrose. As his secretary, I knew that there were at least ten types of silences after a few months of being in his employ.

Seconds stretched into minutes until finally...

Plink!

Holding my breath, I unfolded the letter.

Mr Linton,

I do not pay you to eat on the job as my secretary. There is a designated 30 minute break appointed in the afternoon for that. See to it that there are no more 'small inconveniences' to distract you. Knowledge is power is time is money.

Rikkard Ambrose

I suppose that could have gone worse than expected. Considering the incident at his factory two weeks ago. Also the other business deal from the other day. And...

Well, you get the picture.

Sighing, I set the note aside and decided to start on the day's tasks. Hopefully today would just be another day at work that would pass by quickly.

It wasn't until later that I realized just how wrong I was.

— — —

A few hours later, I was in the process of organising new files to be added to Mr Ambrose's already endless file collection when it happened.

I felt a building pressure in my lower abdomen, on the verge of becoming an entirely uncomfortable pressure in my lower regions.

Wonderful. Another thing that I had forgotten to do before leaving the house this morning.

Getting up slowly and carefully, I headed towards Mr Ambrose's door and knocked.

'Enter.' Came the composed, cool voice that I knew by heart at this point.

Shuffling into the room, I saw that Mr Ambrose surrounded by a pile of papers on his desk as usual, reading an opened file in front of him.

'Ehem.' I cleared my throat.

'What is it?' He didn't look up from the file.

I contemplated how to tell him that I needed to pee in the most delicate manner that I could currently manage. I decided to settle with:

'I need to use the powder room.'

He glanced up at me, then quickly back to his papers.

'Go in.' He jerked his head towards the direction of the small door that led to his personal bathroom.

Without expelling the contents of my bladder, I walked as fast I could to the door and shut it behind me. Dropping my trousers, I sat on the toilet to relieve myself.

This was one of those times when wearing trousers was more convenient than wearing a dress and hoop skirt. Once I finished my business, I was ready to pull up my trousers and get back to work.

That's when it happened.

That's when I saw it.

A small, reddish stain on the nether region of my brown trousers.

Oh no.

No.

No, no, no, nononono !

No! No! No!

Why now?

Well, that nasty inner voice in the back of my mind retorted, that explains everything so far today.

My sore back, waking up late, feeling sluggish and extra emotional, craving for chocolate. It all made sense now but...

I frantically tried to think back to when was the last time this happened. Let's see...sometime shortly after I had returned back to London after the Egypt trip. But why wasn't this an issue then?

Because, my inner voice piped up again, you were home on a Sunday afternoon when it started.

Blast! What was I going to do now?

I went over my options.

Option 1: Try to endure the rest of the day and hope that no one would notice. I could even tie my tailcoat around my waist. It would definitely look odd and probably rouse suspicion but maybe it could work?

Yeah, right. If you bleed through your tailcoat too, then you're done for. Say goodbye to your job.

Couldn't that inner voice of mine shut up already! Why did it have to be so rational?

Option 2: Resign my job before I would be found out.

Definitely not happening. Not when I had been through so much for this job including leaving the country twice and risking my life multiple times. There was no way that I, Lilly Linton, ifrit extraordinaire, would let something like this get in the way of my independence.

Which left option 3: Ask Mr Ambrose if I could take my lunch break early to go home and change.

Just the idea made me want to disappear on the spot. It was embarrassing enough that this had to happen but having to involve my boss too? This made the situation more dreadful a hundred times over. But...

What other choice did I have? Unfortunately, this was the best option compared to the other two.

Closing my eyes, I couldn't help but to let out a loud sigh.

Remember what I said earlier about trousers being convenient? I take it all back. This was definitely one of those times when wearing trousers was definitely not convenient! If I was wearing a dress, then there may have been a chance that I could have held on a bit until lunch break. But there was no choice, I needed to go home immediately to change my trousers and retrieve that.

However, the bigger issue was how to convince Mr Ambrose to let me take my lunch break earlier. What to tell him?

Mr Ambrose, I'm feeling a bit ill and would like to take a break.

Great. That would give him the grounds to dismiss me for the day, possibly even sack me, especially after what happened earlier with the chocolate.

My younger sister, Ella, has food poisoning and I need to check on her.

Nope. Mr Ambrose would be moved to sympathy as much as a mountain could budge.

My aunt has arranged a meeting with a prospective suitor for me this afternoon.

Not convincing in the slightest considering that Mr Ambrose knew that I would do anything to avoid the topic of marriage. Especially when it involved me.

Drat! What could I say?

Unbidden, another thought popped into my head.

Why not just tell him the truth?

What? As if that would ever work!

Not to mention, a woman's....time was a taboo topic. Despite my mother's early death and limited knowledge provided by my aunt, even I knew that was something proper ladies did not discuss with gentlemen in society. It was highly inappropriate.

But then again, since when were you a proper lady?

Good point. It's not like Mr Ambrose was a gentleman either by any means.

Still, the main issue was that would Mr Ambrose be understanding even if I told him the truth?

I doubted that someone like him even knew something like that about females anyway, given that he most likely came out of a giant boulder. It was impossible to imagine him with a mother, let alone two human parents.

Enough stalling, Lilly! It's now or never.

Five minutes later, I stepped out of the bathroom after working up enough courage. Mr Ambrose was still flipping through the same file, not having moved from his position.

Standing in front of his desk, I cleared my throat. No response.

I tried to get his attention again. 'Mr Ambrose?'

'What is it, Mr Linton?' His eyes never left the file.

'Er, I was wondering if...I could take my lunch break now?'

Damn! Why did my voice sound so weak?

His hand paused, right in the middle of flipping a page. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his eyes to meet mine.

I swallowed.

'What did you say?' His voice was deceptively calm.

'Could I take my lunch break now?'

If his stare was cold before, it was frosty now.

'Mr Linton, did I or did I not mention earlier that there is a designated thirty minute break for all employees?'

'Um, you did, sir.' I looked down at the stone floor. For some reason, it was particularly interesting.

'So why are you asking me this?' He reached to grab another file from one of the piles on his table.

'Well,' I bit my lip. 'I had another accident.'

Silence.

I risked a glance upwards. He seemed frozen, his hand still holding onto the file, save for the narrowing of his eyes by 0.000013 of a millimetre.

'By any chance,' he finally ground out, 'is this "accident" of yours similar to what happened earlier?'

'No.'

'No?'

'No.' I repeated, my throat dry. Why was this so hard? 'A worse accident. Much, much worse.'

He cocked his head. 'How so?'

'It involves my identity.'

Based on his expression, he knew what I was referring to. While I was his personal secretary during working hours, it was as Mr Victor Linton, not as my true self, Miss Lillian Linton.

A female.

'Mr Linton.' His voice was soft. Too soft. Like the momentary stillness before a hurricane. 'What. Did. You. Do?'

'I- I didn't do anything!' Why the heck was I stuttering? 'Well, not yet anyway.'

'Yet?'

It was both impressive and a bit unnerving how ominous he made just one word sound. I felt like a mouse that had been cornered by a tiger.

'What is going on?' He demanded, eyes flashing. 'Tell me!'

I bit my lip and his eyes zeroed in on the action, following my every movement.

'I'm not sure how to bring this up since you haven't been out in society much but have you heard about a woman's time?'

'A woman's time for what?'

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath. This really wasn't going to be easy, was it? 'There comes a time when a girl matures into a woman. Her body undergoes some physical changes and afterwards, every once in a while, she...'

Plop.

My voice trailed off when his hand let go of the file he was holding onto and it dropped back onto the table.

His mouth was now slightly ajar and his eyes were cast downwards, scanning the contents of his desk.

'Oh.' His voice didn't sound as collected as before.

'Yes.'

So he did know about it after all. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised as I was, given what he repeated about time and knowledge and all that. But still, considering this was Mr Ambrose...

'What do you expect me to do about that?'

'Huh?'

'Don't you females usually do something to deal with it?'

'Well...yes, but—'

'So do what you need to do. Stop wasting my time already.'

'That's the issue, sir.' I snapped at him, too annoyed to focus on the fact that he had acknowledged my gender. 'I need to go home and change. That's why I asked if I could take my lunch break now.'

'Why do you need to go home? Can't you do it here?'

I nearly choked. That hardheaded, miserly head of his was really made of stone!

'I don't have any extra clothes here and what I use to take care of it is also at home too.'

He just stared at me.

I shrugged. 'I mean, I suppose I can wait until later to take my break. You'll have to risk my true identity being exposed once your workers see me bleeding all over the—'

'Mr Linton!'

Oh my. Was it just me or were his ears now tinged a bit red?

Pressing my palms into the table, I leaned forward. 'Or you could let me go home now and get this taken care of so I can get back to work sooner.'

He leaned forward as well, sea-coloured eyes clashing with hazel ones.

'Indeed, Mr Linton?' I felt his breath on my lips.

I arched an eyebrow. 'Indeed, Mr Ambrose.'

'Very well then.' He straightened back into his chair and picked up the file he dropped.

'W-What?' I blinked.

'You may take your lunch break now.'

'Really?' I stared at him in shock.

I couldn't believe it had actually worked! This was Mr Ambrose we were talking about here. I had half expected him to tell me something ridiculous along the lines of controlling my body's functions and to stop bleeding. It wouldn't have been the first time he had said something like that anyway.

'I don't like to repeat myself. Go now.'

My face broke out into a broad smile. 'Yes, sir!'

'Also, see to it that this doesn't happen again.' His stare was disapproving.

'You mean taking an early lunch break? Or are you referring to my other problem? Because I don't know how to break this to you but—'

'The clock is ticking, Mr Linton.'

'Yes, sir!' I gave a salute and left his office.

— — —

It's surprising really, what one can accomplish during a time of emergency. If you were to ask me how I was able to go back home, change my clothes and even eat an early lunch on my way back to Empire house all within the span of thirty minutes, I would tell you that I had no idea it was at all possible until today.

Maybe it was possibly due to luck? That certainly seemed to play a factor as the only people home were my uncle, locked up in his study as usual, and Leadfield, cleaning out the attic. It was a good thing too, since I hadn't bothered to change back into a dress in the garden shed before climbing through my bedroom window.

I was able to obtain some linen rags designated for times like these (part of the wonderful experience of being a female) and changed into another pair of my uncle's old trousers. I even packed extra rags in my briefcase, something I probably should have done in the first place. But eh, better late than never, I suppose.

Since I had five minutes to spare on my return back to Empire House, I was able to buy a sandwich and eat it on the way. I was starting to understand the concept of efficiency, especially after working for Mr Ambrose. Huh, it might not actually be all that bad.

Thankfully, the rest of work passed by uneventfully. Once I returned to my office, I saw that Mr Ambrose had shut the door to his own once again. He still could tell that I had returned though, for I had just sat down at my desk when I was pelted with more tasks to complete for the rest of the day, including retrieving more files. But I was determined to work even harder to make up for this morning.

By the time I took a look at my pocket watch, it was already dark outside. Eight o'clock on the dot.

Packing up my things, I was ready to leave when the door to Mr Ambrose's office opened, revealing his tall, dark figure in the doorway.

'Would you step into my office for a moment, Mr Linton?'

'Why?'

'I have something I wish to discuss with you.'

'You can discuss it here.'

'I can, But I would prefer not to.'

'I would prefer to.'

'You do not get to decide, Mr Linton. My office, now. Close the door behind you.'

I reluctantly followed him, shutting the door behind me. He sat back down in his chair, his posture ramrod straight with crossed arms.

'In regards to the matter earlier today...' He began in a low voice.

'Yes?' Did I take more than thirty minutes to return? Were there more mistakes I had made after my break?

'Are you sure that you're fit to work?'

'What?'

'Are you fit to work with your current state?'

Was he being serious right now? Judging by the expression on his face (or lack thereof), I had to say that he was.

'Why wouldn't I be?'

'Given what has transpired earlier today, I have reason to believe so, Mr Linton.'

A spark of anger flared within me. 'Mr Ambrose, besides the two incidents that happened before my break, did I give you any other reason to believe otherwise?'

'Well, no.' He had the nerve to sound reluctant!

'Then yes, I am plenty fit to work.' I glared at him. 'Mr Ambrose, just because of I'm losing a bit of blood does not mean that I am incapacitated.'

He opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.

'Furthermore, I am not weak. Women are not weak. We have been dealing with this since the beginning of time and haven't let it get in the way of doing what needs to be done.'

'I never said that you were weak, Mr Linton.'

'Then what are you trying to say?'

'I...' Something flashed in his eyes so quickly before I completely identify it. Concern?

'Nothing, Mr Linton.' That granite mask of his was back in place. 'You are dismissed for the day.'

I turned to leave but then paused.

'Thank you.'

He looked up from the papers in front of him.

'For what?'

'For letting me take my break early today.'

For being more understanding than I expected you to be.

Our eyes met for a fathomless moment. He nodded once.

You're welcome.

I gave him a small smile. Spinning on my heel, I left his office, feeling his eyes trail behind my retreating figure the entire time.

I guess that today may not have been a completely bad day after all.

— — —

Wow, that was a pretty long read. Kudos if you made it to the end. This was just my take on periods if they ever came up in the SnS world. I’m kinda sad that it never did considering this was a series about women’s rights and numerous other “taboo” topics in the Victorian era have been brought up in the books such as bathroom habits, “amorous congress” and “protection” for said congress. Oh well. I was able to articles to find 2 articles that I used for reference to write this. I’ll share them in a reblog since my post wont show in the tags due to the links. There’s not much known about periods in the Victorian Era since it was a “taboo” subject but there are some tidbits here and there that I was able to base this off of.

#storm and silence #in the eye of the storm #lilly linton #rikkard ambrose #fanfiction #oneshot #kinda a prompt but not really #repost since it didnt show up in the tags the first time #stuffartsy #knowledgeispoweristimeismoney

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stylesnews · 4 years

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In a decade, Harry Styles has gone from teenage heartthrob to a global pop star in his own right. As he's distanced himself from his adolescent years as a member of One Direction, he's become his own person, starring in the 2017 blockbuster Dunkirk, hosting Saturday Night Live and creating music that pulls from a variety of influences.

Styles released his second solo album Fine Line late last year, and in addition to showcasing some of those influences and his talents as a songwriter, it was also a huge commercial success, with the biggest U.S. sales week for a British male artist since Eric Clapton's Unplugged in 1992.

But Styles says he spent a lot of time rethinking his idea of success after touring his self-titled album. "I think if you're making what you want to make, then ultimately no one can tell you you're unsuccessful, because you're doing what makes you happy," he says.

NPR's Mary Louise Kelly spoke to Harry Styles about his love of Fleetwood Mac and finding freedom in the music of the '70s, what he would say to his 16-year-old self and nail polish. Listen in the player above and read on for a transcript of their full conversation.

Mary Louise Kelly: Your most recent album seems tied up in the '70s, which is a decade you didn't actually live through. What is it about that era that draws you in?

There's a freedom in the music that is so inspiring. If you go back and listen to so much of that music, and you listen to songs from [Carole King's] Tapestry and Harry Nilsson songs, they sound so fresh. I think it's crazy that something that was made so long ago, you can listen to it now and be like "I want my drums to sound like these drums, and I want my strings to sound like these strings." I think that's really incredible. And I think it's just the freedom, it's people doing what they wanted to do. Obviously, the music business has changed so much since then — there was a lot more of everybody hanging out together and playing songs, and I feel like music is a lot more competitive now.

And is it maybe a little more produced now? Less organic?

I think we just have different technology. When we came to do my first solo album, I had this thing where I wanted to do everything to tape. And then I kind of realized that The Beatles didn't use tape because it was really cool to use, they used it because it was the best technology they had [at the time] and it sounded the best. And now we just have different ways of recording stuff and you can make stuff sound really nice — so we kind of abandoned the tape thing. Overall what draws me to that time with music is just the freedom.

Was making Fine Line sound like the music of the '70s a conscious choice?

I'm not listening to stuff so much anymore being like "I just want my stuff to sound like this." You grow up listening to what your parents listen to. For me it was the [Rolling] Stones, Beatles, Fleetwood [Mac], a lot of Queen, Elvis Presley, Shania Twain, Savage Garden, Norah Jones. That was kind of like the base of what my first experience with music was, and I feel like you can't help but have a lot of references from what you grew up listening to [in your own music].

Speaking of Fleetwood Mac, I saw you've gotten to know and work with Stevie Nicks. What's that like, to get to know someone who was the soundtrack of your childhood and go out on stage with them?

It borders on an out-of-body experience. "Dreams" was the first song I knew all the words to; I used to sing it in the car with my mom. Every time I'm with her, you want to be, obviously, present, right? I'm trying to enjoy being with her and soaking in. But I think at the same time, while you're in the room with her, I'm sitting there thinking about being 10-years-old and singing the song.

Does it matter if you're super famous yourself?

I don't think so, because ultimately we're all humans. It's not like paralyzing starstruck, it's more like I try and appreciate what my 10-year-old self would think of it. I think ultimately you meet [other famous people] and you're kind of in awe of them, but at the same time you get to hang out with them on this human level, where you're just talking and it's really amazing.

Those are the moments that kind of mean the most because it's real. And when everything else about being in music goes away, that's the stuff that I think you end up telling your grandkids. For example, with Stevie, my favorite moments about it aren't usually the show, it's the practicing. When we first played together, it was at the Troubadour — famously, where Elton John did his first U.S. show — and it was an amazing moment, but my favorite was soundchecking. It's like four people in there and just us singing in the empty Troubadour. For me, that's a moment that I'm going to hold on to.

Speaking of moments where you wish you could tell your younger self "Buddy, you have no idea": 10 years ago when you auditioned for the British reality show X Factor, the judge Simon Cowell asked you "What do you want to do with your life, what are your future plans?" You said you were going back to college in the fall to study "law, sociology, business and something else, but I'm not sure yet."

There's a lot of us who wanted to be a rock star and ended up being lawyers. You've gone the other way. Is it funny listening back to yourself? What do you wish you could tell your 16-year-old self?

I guess like "Don't worry." In the early years, I spent a lot of time worrying about what would happen and getting things wrong and saying the wrong thing and doing the wrong thing. I'm trying to let go of the worrying thing, and that's what I've loved the most about this album, rather than the first one. I think I had a lot of fear — whether it was conscious or subconsciously — just about getting it wrong. When I listen back to the first album now, although I still love it so much, I feel like I was almost bowling with the bumpers up a little bit. I can hear places where I was playing it safe.

When I listen back to the first album now, although I still love it so much, I feel like I was almost bowling with the bumpers up a little bit. I can hear places where I was playing it safe.

I think with this one, after touring with an album that wasn't necessarily a radio record and people came to see the show, I realized that the only thing that people really want is for you to do what you want to do. Ultimately, I think if people believe in you, you can make a bad record, you can make a bad song, and people will still come to a show if they're interested and they want to come see you. I think the only time people go "You know what? I'm done with this," is when it stops being authentic. You can't really blame people for that. If there's an artist I loved and I felt like they were faking it, I can't say that I'd keep going to the shows. I think that was a big thing for me, just trying to worry less. The worst thing that can happen is that I make a record that I think everybody else wants to hear, and then it doesn't do well. And you sit there going "Well I wish I'd just made the record that I wanted to make." I think if you're making what you want to make, then ultimately no one can tell you you're unsuccessful, because you're doing what makes you happy. That's the biggest thing that I learned this time.

You dress amazingly. You wear suits, but they're patterned and florals and you had that blouse that got all the attention at last year's Met Gala. I noticed you're wearing nail polish, and you do wear clothing that blurs traditional lines sometimes. What are you hoping people take from that? Is it just "This is what I want to wear, deal with it" or are you trying to send any kind of message?

For me, it's not like doing it to send a message. Part of being on the last tour, when people came to watch the show, I realized "Oh, these people just want to see me be myself, and I'm telling them to be themselves." And I just didn't want to be a hypocrite. I do it when I'm not working, so to me it doesn't feel like it's "Oh, I'm sending a message with my nail polish." I just put a lot less weight behind it, I think. And sometimes I forget, because I'll go somewhere and someone will be like "Have you got nail polish on?" I'm lucky that I work in an industry that allows you to be creative and express yourself, and I'd encourage it to anybody.

Can you tell us about a favorite song on the album?

My two favorite songs on this album are probably "Cherry" and "Fine Line." "Cherry" is the fifth song on the album. It's one of my favorites, mostly because of how it came about. When I started making this album ... I felt like it had to be big. The last record wasn't really a radio record: The single ["Sign of the Times"] from it was a 6-minute piano ballad, so it wasn't the typical formula. So I felt a bit of pressure that I wanted to make something that worked. I was trying this stuff one night in the studio, and I was worried because I just wasn't really liking anything that I was doing. I felt like I was trying too hard. That's when I make the music that I like the least, is when I'm trying to write a pop song or I'm trying to write something fun.

Everybody left for the weekend, and it was me, Tyler Johnson, who I work with, and Sammy Witte. It was two or three in the morning, and we were having a drink and just talking. I was saying how I have all these records that I'd love to make, I love all this kind of music and in five years I want to make this kind of record, and in 10 years I want to make this kind of album, and then I'll get to make the music that I really want to make. And Tyler just said "You just have to make the music that you want to make — right now. That's the only way of doing it, otherwise you're going to regret it."

And "Cherry" was the result of that?

Yeah, so we stayed and Sammy started playing the guitar riff, and we did it through the night and recorded it. Everybody came back in the morning and listened to it ... I heard it when it was finished and was like "This is the kind of music I want to make."

How did you write "Fine Line?"

"Fine Line" I wrote [during] a gap in the tour. It was January 2018 and I was at my friend Tom's house, who I work with, and we just started strumming this thing, and we started layering these vocals, and it turned into this 6-minute thing. I had it for a long time and I kept listening to it during the tour, like I'd listen to it before I went to bed. Just sonically I loved the song, and I loved the lyrics of the song. When we wrote it, I kind of knew it was the last song of an album, and we ended up taking it to Bath, in England, where I was making this record for a while. I wanted it to turn into something else at the end, I wanted like a big crescendo ending. While we were in Bath, Sammy started playing this little thing on the piano, and I tweaked it a little bit and I was like "That has to go at the end of 'Fine Line.' " Now when I listen to it, it's one of those things where I'm just proud that it's mine, I'm so happy. It's one of those songs that I've always wanted to make.

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