#It's more than being a foil. It's about being on the same path and being so near to each other.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Parallel Lines and Brothers.

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#poorly drawn mdzs #mdzs #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #lan wangji #lan xichen #jin zixuan #Does anyone else think about the tragedy of the parallel lines? Of characters who are parallel lines? #Of running the same course as someone. Of echoing each other in perfect synchronicity. #It's more than being a foil. It's about being on the same path and being so near to each other. #and yet parallel lines never intersect. They cannot meet each other despite their existence being tied to another. #I think the brothers tragedy is just as much of a tragedy of parallel lines as is pre-resurrection wangxian. #Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian spend so much time running side by side and yet - they cant close this gap between them. #Even if their relationship never recovers - they are forever tied together through their past. The good and bad and ugly. #All the things that are left unsaid between them. All the love and sacrifices they made for each other that are never shared. Parallel line #I firmly believe any post-canon material that would have them be indifferent towards each other is just...really doing them a disservice. #And dear god the Lan brothers. They certainly love each other! Its a far fonder fraternal relationship than jiangxian (/platonic) #They fool you by having you think they have a good read on each other. Lan Xichen certainly wingmans + advocates for lwj! #But lets not forget - Lan Xichen by the end is in the reverse situation and headspace as Lan Wangji by the end of this story. #Lan Wangji is more free and open than he has ever been. He's in love. He's married. He and wwx are intersecting lines. #& LXC who grew up with and lived the same path as LWJ - who even is said to resemble him visually - his parallel line - shuts himself away #Despite all the love LWJ has for his brother I don't think he ever manages to reach him.

[chronically-ghosted]

i'm swingin' blind and you're stunning me without any gloves

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 9K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: the night continues while the two of you dance around the inevitable. dieter's restraint is foiled by dreams of a water bed.

warnings/tags: depictions of drugs, age gap, cum eating, piv sex, not actually incest but close, concerns about getting old, reader is at least 18 (by how much is up to you), no use of y/n, oral (f receiving), hand jobs (m & f receiving), unprotected piv, squirting, the barest hint of overstimulation, oh and SMUT.

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“Do all movie stars have six empty bedrooms they don’t use?” 

“They’re not always empty . . . I mean, it’s good for parties. Gives people space to get out of the chaos if they want, or if they need a place to crash. Keeps the energy, uh, flowing. Keeps the vibes good.” 

He uses the joint to take the place of having to explain that the room you just passed was in fact used as a revolving door for anyone who wanted a bump only two weeks ago. The second floor stretches out into the darkness, the nasty weather outside beating against the windows. He keeps a slow steady pace, the high making his insides comfortably warm as you wander in and out of rooms, like a less frantic, totally-fuckable version of that Scooby Doo gag. He’s quite sure he’ll never be able to watch Saturday morning cartoons the same way.

So far, you’ve been content with asking rather inane questions, filler questions that he suspects you’re hoping reveal more than he’s giving. The response to the question being more important than the answer itself. 

So no one lives in these rooms? No.

Do you ever use these as anything else other than bedrooms? No.

What’s outside by the pool? A gym.

A gym with full length mirrors that he used to adore snapping selfies in, in his younger cop show days, and without much prompting, would admit to masterbating to on occasion. 

You’ll always be your own greatest critic so fuck ‘em.

You come out of the last bedroom, smirking faintly as though someone had told you a particularly naughty secret, humming faintly to yourself. He never much cared for giving tours but given that you walked ahead of him and gave him adequate time to ogle the backs of your thighs, he could think of worse ways to spend time with you. 

“Mhm hmm,” you mutter to no one in particular. The carpet is plush, but that is the only thing you could say you really enjoyed about the style of the house. Everything else, especially the almost clinically clean air to it, makes it feel like a hotel, as if Dieter is mold growing in someone else’s house. Again, these are filed as things that helped fill out the picture of the man your uncle had become, if not the man he wanted to portray.

“So where do you sleep?” 

He had been lulled into such a stupor of quiet fantasy fueled by his warm high that he didn’t even think twice when he pointed down the hall. 

“God, it just keeps going, doesn’t it?” 

Turns out the path to moral degradation isn’t a straight line, but a curved slope. One he finds himself on, going down round and round and round, the longer he watches your legs, the curve of your ass, the bright smile as you quite obviously tried to get a glimpse of the old Dee. But that's the thing about drugs that he finds he so actively craved – of course there is the euphoria, the chemical sensations, the wires of your brain plugged into different outlets and restarting the whole system. But he's found that’s when people tended to be their most honest, most unpolished and they weren’t afraid to be like that. 

There was a lot of talk around the ego and the ID in his early acting classes. Who was your character when their ego had been pulled back like strips of skin? 

But as he got older, the question he became more obsessed with was, who were the people around him when they weren’t being paid to like him?

You, of course, are different from all that. You hadn’t built up an ego quite yet. You hadn’t built up the mechanisms required to survive the world because you hadn’t needed to. Sure, you could deflect and get what you wanted by batting your eyelashes, but there are times he felt ugly in the skin he had built. Like somewhere along the way, he had tried on all these hats and now they had all attached themselves to his head and he couldn’t tear them off if he tried. His costume didn’t fit– his face wasn’t even visible any more. 

And who exactly had spent the last fifteen minutes trailing after his beautiful, carefree niece, a single breath away from getting so hard it hurt, in this massively empty mansion? What version of himself wants to snake a hand into those shorts and effectively ruin you for anyone else – wanted to grip you so hard there’d be bruises and tears in your eyes when you came? 

Which one of them is he willing to show you?

All of them. None of him. The ID.

You glance over your shoulder, curious that he hadn’t answered you. 

“Yeah,” he sighs, smoking between his two fingers again. “Could get lost in a place like this.”

You pause in your inspection, eyes soft because of the drugs or the low lighting or something else, and take his hand. “Lucky I’ve got you then.” 

His mouth is instantly dry in a way that has nothing to do with the weed. He offers you the joint and you smoke too, eyelids drooping, allowing him another second of looking. 

And then another smile breaks across your face.

“Fuck,” your laugh turns into a cough. “Did you ever get that stupid fucking waterbed you wouldn’t shut up about? I remember you swearing the first thing you’d buy when you were rich and famous was a waterbed – which I thought was so fucking cool because I’d never heard of a waterbed before because I was seven and it sounded like something totally made up — so of course, someone rich and famous could have one.”

You’re still holding hands, your palm dry and warm, when he laughs too. He takes the joint back from you, eyes narrowing as he looks at you out of the corner of his eyes.

Turns out moral degradation is a fucking cannon ball. 

“Why don’t you go see for yourself?” 

You squeeze his hand, eyes bright, before almost sprinting down the hall to the room on the right. He follows you, struck by the notion this is the first and last time you’ll ever enter his bedroom. This has to be the end of something.

He hears a grunt and a groan and he can’t help but smile. He saunters into the room, leaning up against the door frame with his hands in the pockets of his robe. You are face down on the mattress, hands under your chest. 

“This is not a water bed,” you grumble, the sound muffled. 

Once again, Maria deserved a raise just for making his bed. 

“No, it’s not,” he says slowly, as he edges a teasing tone into his next words. “Look, I did get a fucking water bed, alright? Just about a century ago when they were still a thing.”

You ease up onto your elbows and glare at him. “Can’t believe you got rid of it. What a waste.” 

And then you’re sliding back onto your knees, hands planted on the covers, and for just a second, he swears he can see the outline of your cunt through the material that could hardly be called shorts. 

His knees actually buckle for a second before he stands up right and physically has to close his eyes. Looking away wouldn’t have been enough. 

But you don’t see all of this. You’re frowning down, as if glaring hard enough will bypass physics and liquidate the mattress. 

“What happened to it? The water bed, I mean.” 

Just as he’s gotten his heart rate back under control, your question throws everything into a spiral again. 

Do not fucking tell her about the hookers and the brass pasties. Or the cock ring. Definitely do not mention the cock ring. 

“It, uh, popped.” 

You smirk over your shoulder. “It was a sex thing, wasn’t it?” 

The question lingers, Dieter unable to make a coherent word that didn’t sound like take your pants off right fucking now, so he swallows and shakes his head. By some minor miracle, you shrug and don’t push it, sliding off the bed and completing your assessment of his life by regarding the book collection against the opposite wall. 

It’s bigger than you expect someone like Dieter to have, but its placement in the house – almost hidden in his private bedroom – suggests that its volume is not there to impress. It’s his personal collection and, judging by the bent spines, books he’s actually read, perhaps several times. There’s a small desk next to it, crouching in the corner and littered with sheets of paper that look like they were torn from a sketchbook. 

He couldn’t decide which version of himself he wanted you to see less: Dieter, full of vices, or Dieter, bratty actor who only acted in the first place because he couldn’t cut it as a real artist. 

Your hands run over the sketches, eyes annoyingly unreadable, and just as he’s about to leap forward and scoop all of the sketches into the trash, you move on. Your interest is caught by some of the books. You make noises that are both outside of the realm of approval or disgust and he finds himself nervous. Book reading is about the last thing on anyone’s mind once they’ve reached the final destination of The Bedroom, so he’s never worried about what someone might think. But this isn’t just someone, it’s you. 

His mouth opens to make some quippy remark, when you gasp and lunge forward, grabbing something at the back of the shelf.

“Holy shit, that’s you!” 

You hold up a picture of his high school’s production of Othello and there he is fifteen and smack dab in the middle of the cast. 

“Oh fuck, I forgot that was there,” he groans, dropping the nearly gone joint into an ashtray by the side of the bed. You’re practically glowing with excitement and he rolls his eyes as he takes it from you.

“Jesus Christ, look at that kid. Has no idea what kind of dumbass he’s going to grow up to be.” 

Three years after that photo was taken, he had left in the middle of the night for Hollywood. Of course, just as he had finished packing up his piece-of-shit Chevy, Enrico caught him. Exploded in his face and scolded him in his old man ways for leaving without saying nothing. 

He kept this photo because it was the last thing that reminded him of home and yet so distant it didn’t hurt as bad any more. 

“I think he did spectacular for himself,” you grin at him. “Who knew The Dieter Bravo was such a softie for the old days?” 

He smirks at you, finally sick of you kicking his ass all night. There is a line between fucking you and out sassing you, one he could live with. You aren't fucking ready for that Dieter. 

“No way,” he rubs the bottom of his lip with his thumb, artfully contemplative, and purposefully distractingly hot. “Just keep it around for the spank bank. Ms. Lemons was a babe.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he leans across you to put the photo back.  “Oh yeah? I gave my first blow job in that blackbox.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.”

“Yes I did!” 

“What was his name?”

“Jeremy.”

“Jeremy what?” 

“Jeremy . . . Barnes.”

“Pssh, fake name, fake boyfriend, fake story.” 

“He was real! I just . . . can’t remember his last name right now.” 

“Blurs together with all the other guys you’ve blown, right?” 

You bite the corner of your mouth, your smirk so tight he can almost picture your toes curling. Not that he’d dare break eye contact with you now. Now that he’s got you practically pinned to the bookshelf, photo forgotten and something that’s been slinking around for the past three hours finally rolling on its back and exposing its belly. 

He knows The Look, he practically invented it, and he can’t quite remember why it’s not okay to get that from your niece and someone twenty years younger than him. Right now, the portion of his brain that can sort that’s fucked up and it’s not that hard to refrain from being a fucking creep is filled with smoke, a sort of hissing sound there that is not unlike a shaken soda begging for release. 

And dear God does he want release. But he’s willing to edge it just a bit longer, scrape that muscle as gingerly as he can before touching it where it needs to be touched.

“I have no idea what you mean,” you say softly, meekly being cowed for the first time all night. Fuck, do you have to make it so easy?

“That’s right. You don’t. Because if it were any good, you’d remember it.” 

He puts a hand above your shoulder to stop himself from sinking into you. Weed made the world feel plushy, moldable – and he just wants to lounge in the dip of your bottom lip. You look so different from the girl who showed up soaking wet at his front door. 

Your breathing hitches the closer he comes, your eyes fluttering as you watch his fingers dig into the spines of the books. 

“What’s his first name again, darling? Do you still remember that?” 

You gasp, loudly, as if his itching fingers had finally sunk in between your legs, but you’re sliding away from him and pulling out something from the shelf. Something white and something he should have fucking hidden better. 

“Oh my God, is this my senior yearbook?” 

You’re wandering over to his bed, leaving Dieter reeling, his own spell so alarmingly effective he is caught beneath it too. It takes him a moment to blink as he realizes maybe this is where you reneg and decide you don’t want to fuck him after all. 

“It’s not as weird as it sounds –,” he begins, heart in his throat, and hands safely in his pockets as he joins you near the bed. You still haven’t looked up as you flip through the glossy pages.

“Sure, sure.” 

“Look, your dad sent it to me and I didn’t even open it,” he says honestly. The package was delivered on the Tuesday afternoon when he woke up so hungover he actually thought he might die, and couldn’t bear the thought of not recognizing you in the class photo. 

Funny how that all fucking worked out. 

You hadn’t leapt off the bed, called him a dirty old man, and ran away to call the police. Which are probably good signs. So, slowly, he sits down next to you, halfway on the bed and halfway off. 

“He sent it just a few weeks ago. I didn’t really think much of it at the time,” he says quietly. So you had been on the high school’s newspaper staff, as well as being the captain of the journalism club and ran the book club. You were on the volleyball team and co-Secretary of the student body government. Here, he spent all night trying to find out what kind of person you are when half your life is waiting for him upstairs. “But maybe he sent it as, like, some sort of . . . fond reminder.”

You snort, your thumb tucked under your chin as your hand touches the memories on the page.

“No, it fucking wasn’t. He was guilt-tripping you.” 

So your dad definitely still remembered the fight all those years ago. Dieter grimaces. His gaze slides from the stock pages, to your knee, down the crease of your thigh. 

“You know, he would have made me your godfather if–,” 

“If you weren’t such a fuck up. Yeah, he told me that too.” 

You finally look at him and find him nearly out of breath, eyes wide as though he had been struck by a sledgehammer right to the chest. 

“Actually, he told me if I came around more.” 

Your face crumples, the flippancy gone.

“Fuck, Dee, I’m sorry.” You cup the back of his neck with your palm in a soothing gesture and it stirs something within him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It is what it is.” Deflection, distraction, escape.

You smile gently, thumbing his curls as your eyes roam his face, seeing right through his bullshit.

“You know, you kinda became the cautionary tale around us growing up,” you murmur, gaze searching his face. “Not sure why, though. Since you’re, like, a gazillionaire.”

Not worth it. None of it’s worth it.

“I get that. I get why he didn’t want me around. Probably best that I fucked off and never looked back.” 

The corners of your eyes crinkle, as though he had said something that didn’t make sense. You stop combing his hair and run your thumb over his ear. 

“But I don’t think you are,” you say slowly, as though you didn’t need to explain. “A cautionary tale, I mean. I think you’re . . . an inspiration. No one in our town ever fucking leaves, but you did. You got the fuck out and lived your dreams. And that’s pretty cool.” 

There’s not any hope for me, not if you knew all the fucked up shit I want to do to you. 

Don’t look at me like that. 

When he looks around for some self control, something to pull himself out of the pit he’s dragging you both in, there’s nothing. All eroded. 

Moral degradation is a smooth fucking shot. 

The yearbook drops from your lap, clatters to the ground as he takes your face with both his hands, his rings pressing into your cheeks, and kisses you so hard his lips knock against your teeth. The force of it rocks you flat against the mattress, your fingers wrapping around his wrists, grounding you to him – don’t take this back, don’t let go – and his tongue runs against your bottom lip once before your mouth opens without hesitation. He can feel that, that desperation, that eagerness to let him in, and he groans into the hollow of your mouth and you take it, you match it, just like everything else he'd given you this night. 

Your tongue rises to catch him, to guide him, to show him the places you need to be touched. He’ll get there, you little thing, so he nips your upper lip and you gasp, your body tightening beneath him. He grins – there’s so much you have to learn. 

His palm drifts away from your jaw, thumb gentle as it coaxes your cheek to the side, before he latches his lips to your neck, sucking and then a quick bite– all eased by his tongue. Your fingers dig up into his hair, clutching him to your chest as there is anything, anywhere else he’d rather be in the world. As if anyone could pry him off you. 

He dives back into your mouth, air rushing out of your nose in a silent moan, and your knee hooks out around his hips, pulling him into the cradle of your lap. You jerk back –

“Dee, you’re – holy shit –,” 

Your hips brush up as if you had somehow gotten it all wrong the first time. As if he isn’t rock hard above you. Your eyes widen as he smirks down at you.

“Yeah, baby, that’s all you. All you do to me.” 

He chuckles, dropping his head to your chest, breathing deeply, head spinning from kissing you so thoroughly. He inhales, nose rubbing against the soft material of your shirt, ideas of peeling it off you with his teeth. Your scent, it’s all at once intoxicating, mesmerizing, and . . . familiar. 

He groans, almost nuzzling your chest.

“Fuck, this smells like that nasty deodorant from 711 I used to buy ‘cause I couldn’t afford anything else.” 

You slowly open your eyes up at him, a distantly embarrassed smile curling up the corners of your mouth. You look hazy, blurred, lips flushed and pink from getting them sucked and bitten. Had he not just licked your entire mouth clean from spit, you might have blushed.

Your fingers curl gingerly around the back of his neck. “Well, you never forget your first.”

His mouth falls open. You had successfully knocked him back on his ass for a second time that night. 

“Shut the fuck up,” he husks, a grin breaking across his lips as the hand at your shoulder pulls gently at the sleeve. “This is my shirt? This has got to be older than you are.”

A small part of his brain, the part that definitely would object to fucking his pseudo-niece, goes warm at the thought that some part of him still lived in that neighborhood, was still there for all the important moments of your life. 

That is until the very active part of his brain lumbers in, quashes all gentle feelings and promptly wrestles for control of his mouth to ask you flat out if you ever touched yourself while wearing it. Not that he didn’t want to know, but if you said yes, he would have come right there on the spot, perhaps so hard his dick popped off. So he did not ask you that, but he did satisfy that part of his brain by molding his hand around your hip, so he could feel the cool fabric on the back of his hand, and your warm, plush skin against his palm. 

You like her being drenched in you, don’t you? 

You swat at his chest, rolling your eyes, oblivious to his rapidly darkening thoughts. “It is not older than me, but if it was . . . would that be a problem?”

You pick at imaginary lint on his shoulder, hips rolling just enough to indicate it better not be a fucking problem, and a smirk on your face that reads innocent and filthy all at once. 

Dieter shakes his head, grinning as he inches his wide palm up your hip, across the thin flesh of your ribs and – 

Does not find a bra. 

You had not been wearing a bra the entire night.

Your smirk deepens, your back arching into his palm, as his thumb brushes the underside of your breast, then over your tightening nipple. You moan softly, eyes fluttering, when he pinches it deftly. His jaw ticks, teeth grinding from the pleasure of watching your mouth arch open. 

It’s like you had been given a list of all the things that turned him on and you are crossing them off one by one. Like you had skinned him and read all his little nasty thoughts written on his ribs and made them your own.

Like you were made for him. 

He leans forward, the bristles of his beard and mustache rough like matches against the shell of your ear, his voice so weighty it could have been another physical thing he intended to drive into you, intended to rub against you to make you keen with pleasure. 

“It’s not a fucking problem, you little brat. Only problem is gonna be if it keeps me from watching those pretty tits bounce while I fuck you.”   

There it is. Out in the open. As if all his flirting and touching and tongue between his teeth hinted at something else besides you spread out under him. Half delirious from being so hard, he grins as he bites the bottom of the shirt – his shirt, Jesus Christ – and pulls it up and he ducks his head under the material and presses a sucking kiss into the valley of your tits. 

He likes giving head from underneath the sheets because, yes, it was hard to breathe. It was hot and stifling and everything smelled of sweat and sex and eventually his brain was forced to make a decision about what motor functions to hold onto and he made it focus on sensations until he was sure he’d be swallowed up by the cunt under his mouth or impaled by the cock in the back of his throat and if that’s how they found him dead, he’d be absolutely fine with all of it. 

Dieter Bravo – died doing what he loved. Giving immaculate, delicious head. 

The heat under the shirt is nowhere near as intense but it’s enough to make him flush with want. He licks the sweat gathering underneath your right tit, holds it on his tongue before he lathers both his spit and your sweat over your clearly-painfully tight nipple. Every touch of his makes you stutter and he can feel you unconsciously rubbing your hips up against him. 

“This isn’t going to end up on Youtube or some shit, right?” You ask above him, your voice rough as though your throat is dry. “You don’t have cameras filming this, right, Dee?” 

He chuckles with his nose rimming your left nipple. Do you have a voyeur kink? He muses vaguely. 

Fuck, I knew I shouldn’t have gotten rid of that mirror. 

“No, baby, it’s not going on Youtube.” He runs his warm palms up the curves of your side as he tugs his head out from underneath the shirt. “All the videos go directly to a password-protected server in the Cloud.”

“Dee–,” you groan as he lunges forward and kisses you hopefully so hard it knocks those silly thoughts from your brain before pulling back to grin helplessly at you. 

You cannot physically describe how impishly adorable he looks with his hair mussed, his lips pink and twisted in a smirk – you cannot really do anything at all, really – but your hand slides up from his shoulder, across his warm neck and settles into his cheek. The last bit of brown is swallowed by a swelling blackness as you rub your thumb across the bottom of his lip. This thing that has been eating at you the longer you’re around him edges you on, daring you to push him just a bit further because it knows you’d just love what he’ll do. It knows more than you, but it’s not exactly smarter than you. It’s just simply fascinated by Dieter Bravo. 

Your own mouth parts, your eyelids growing heavy, as you swipe across his lips one more time before sliding your thumb into the warmth of his mouth. Eyes never leaving yours, his tongue greets your thumb, massaging the pad before licking around it like he’d swirl off the top of an ice cream cone. He sucks gently and you can’t fight the noise that comes out of you. Almost shocked, surprised that you can feel this aroused with all your clothes on and just his tongue. He drags his tongue across the back of your knuckle and the groan is louder now – you want to bite into him – and he pushes his hips into the mattress. 

“C’mere, baby girl–,” 

Dropping your thumb, he dives in again for your mouth, this time the back of his hand grasping your neck. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you as if forgetting there was another way to relieve the tension in his gut, the spark that's fanning smoke like a brushfire into every place your skin, your spit, touches his. 

“Take– this– off–,” He pants between the hot presses of his mouth to your jaw, your neck, the spot beneath your ear that makes you keen in a new way. His hands are scrambling over yours to get the shirt up and over your head, desire almost making him panic that everything is going too fast but not fast enough – he wants to be inside of you in every way that matter – he wants you to smell like him – to breath his same air – 

He’s not so much kissing as opening his mouth over your skin, his teeth and tongue and lips fighting over themselves to get to you first. He wants to linger, wants to take his time but the pressure – he deliriously thinks he can smell you – and only when his fingers clamp down on the waistband of your shorts – he has half a mind to punish you for walking around in these things, making his sanity unwind in the hallways of this fucking place, until the only truly sane thing to do is fuck you and fuck you good – the thought is so strong, almost violent he pauses. 

He looks up to the devastation he’s left in his wake – bright, purple spots on the inside of your breasts, under your ribs, the small swell of your stomach, your chest heaving – and he watches your face. You realize he’s stopped moving, slowed in his volcanic thunderous roll down to the clutch of your cunt, and you meet his gaze. You swallow, mouth too dry to form words, so you splat a hand on his shoulder. 

"No robe. I’m not – not going to let you f-fuck me in a bathrobe.” 

He grins. Of course, you would sass him after a make out session so intense he doesn’t even care if he comes in his pants. But he obliges, pretty much willing to cut off a finger if you continue to purr at him like you are. 

“Excuse you, this is lounge wear.” He leans back onto his knees and shrugs himself out of the green robe. Your eyes flash to the triangle on his forearm and he’d be fucked to admit he didn’t get it entirely for the look in your eyes right now. Chicks always dug the tattoos. Your tits bounce as your breathing hitches. 

Not Daddy’s girl, his smoke-heavy, lust-soaked brain chants at him, not Daddy’s girl. 

God, he’s so hard it hurts. 

He goes back down, dropping himself between your legs, arms tucked up under the backs of your thighs. He mouths the inside of your thigh – a distraction as his hand, like some sort of fucked up, horny magician performs a slight-of-hand, “iiiis this your clit?” – rubs you over your shorts. You are soaking wet and he’s fighting the urge to just dig in there, suckle you through the wet spot. He hadn’t actually made someone come that way before, but now seemed like an excellent opportunity to try. 

“You know, for someone who has to couch-surf, you talk a lot.” 

He noses the rim of the bottom of your shorts, allowing a full gaze down to your ass. 

“Sorry if I’m sick of fucking boys who look like their mom dressed them.” You are breathless, shaky, unwinding at the seams and you know exactly what to say to dig right into him. 

He bites the soft place at the back of your thigh and you groan. 

“I thought you couldn’t remember any of them before me,” he purrs, watching that damp spot grow darker the longer he talks, the longer he holds off on touching you where you and him and the entire fucking world knows you need to be touched. 

Maybe you ran your mouth too, when you were nervous, overwhelmed. Maybe you laughed too loud when you didn’t know what else to do, and maybe you gave him shit because the second words stopped coming out of your mouth, you’d have to sink into whatever he was giving you. You’d have to kneel to the white lighting between your legs. Maybe you were afraid there wouldn’t be white lightning at all. 

Families share similar insecurities, after all. 

He waits until you open your mouth again before hooking his fingers under the band of your shorts. 

“Hmm, there’s actually a fairly long list of guys before you. Guys who–,” 

He sucks the skin just an inch to the right of your hip bone, just before the patch of curly hair, he sucks it into his mouth and bites so gently he knows that your brain nearly splits in half from the hairline fracture between pleasure and pain. 

You gasp and you’re already arching off the bed. He breathes across those coarse, damp curls and inhales. 

Girlsex. 

Girlsweat. 

It’s like there’s acid corroding his brain, eating away at the clamps holding his sanity together and he’s gonna go fucking ballistic if the acid doesn’t get to him first. But he wants the burn. He wants the chemical smell. 

He wants . . . to put his dick into something. 

But first – 

You’re pliable. Easy to move as he scoops your shorts off your ass – Oh, fucking Christ, there’s her entire backside, isn’t there? – over your thighs and he hurls the shorts over his shoulder. He inhales–

God, this pussy is going to kill me, he thinks or maybe says out loud before he tips forward into that black, fluttering hole. When he licks you, you both moan. 

He remembers specifically doing planks for as long as he could to build up the upper body strength to languish here for hours.

Well, at the time, here wasn’t here here, but if everything before this was practice, then he was ready for the Olympics, dick as hard as a goddamn gold medal. 

He swipes up with his tongue, licking and sucking and swirling like frosting was going out of style. Frosting, that’s it. That’s what you reminded him of. Fat, sweating, sweet frosting. And there was the cherry on top. 

He guides your clit into his mouth, his fingers digging into the tops of your thighs as if to pull himself deeper into the wettest goddamn pool at the fucking YMCA. He sucks once and your hands fly into his hair. You’re making sounds that somewhat resemble his name, but they’re too high, too pitchy, too airless to be anything coherent. 

He wants to tease you about all the boys you mentioned. Wants you to go back on your word, beg for him to believe that there was no one else before him. If there was, it didn’t matter because this is it. This is the best you’d ever have. 

Even when you left him, you’d never forget – 

Disgustingly, he slurps up one lip of yours into his mouth and you cry out, fingernails digging into his scalp so hard that it hurts and sends another rush of blood into his weeping cock. He mouths up before teasing your clit again – around it but never on it – before diving back down and lapping up your other lip. 

“Dieter–,” you garble as if you know it’s filthy. He can hear your breathing tighten in your chest, feel your thighs clench around his ears, and he swears if he gets out of this with hair in tact, that’s the most he’s going to ask for –

And he french-kisses your clit.

You come, gasping, writhing, back arching off the mattress and he bares his forearm across your stomach, reaching up to pinch your nipple. 

Settle down. We’re only just getting started. 

He’s got to control himself but staring up at you, your face flushed with pleasure, he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do next. 

You are naked underneath him. Naked and heaving and he licks the dampness staining his mattress just to have your taste in his mouth again. This is going to be a problem, if he can’t think straight without his mouth on you. 

Oh my God, duh, fingers. 

He pulls himself up the length of your body, and his hands sink into your hair. His fingers curl around your ear as he makes you look at him.

“How are you feeling?” It’s an echo of what he asked earlier. You’re still warm but your breathing has slowed. Your eyes are open, even if they’re fighting to stay open as if you are concussed. 

“Good. Great.” You mutter, hand falling to his chest and tangling with his shirt. 

“You wanna keep going?”

Your eyes open wider as if someone rang a dinner bell and you’d been walking on hands and knees, starving for weeks. You swallow thickly, nodding frantically, and the hand leaves his chest, winding down between you and, before he can stop you, slides under the material of his sweats and strokes him. 

Your hands are like velvet.

Fuck, then what’s your cunt gonna feel like– 

Do not fucking come right now. 

“Oh, I see,” you huff, a smirk curling your mouth up, as if you had won some unnamed battle. You roll your shoulder to go aaall the way down his cock and stroke him. You think about licking your hand, but the precum leaking out of the tip of his head at a truly flattering rate is enough lubricant to keep your hand from sticking. “I can’t walk around without a bra on, but you can walk around in these thin fucking sweatpants and no underwear.”

He grits his teeth, dropping his head to his chest, trying to breath through the freightcar rattling down his spine.

“It’s my house, you little cocktease,” he pants, gasping as you run your thumb against the vein underneath his shaft. You pump him again and again and he groans low, with his eyes shut to keep them from rolling back in his head. “I can– yeah, right there – do whatever I want. Move your hand. I want to stick my fingers in you.” 

His words aren’t so crass they make your ears red, but it’s the unrestrained need in his voice. You slowly withdraw your hands and you go wipe the threads of him on the mattress as he sits up to take his shirt off. 

“Don’t. Just– gimme a second.” 

He yanks the tank shirt over his head, setting down in between your legs again and blinking like he’d forgotten where he was. He takes your hand, licks your palm as clean as something as dirty as this could ever get, and then penetrates your hole with his middle finger. His tongue slides in the crevice between your ring finger and your pinkie and when he adds a second finger below, you both can feel the moment your brain is wiped blank and your body twitches along with it. 

“Mhmm, good.” He pulls you down closer to him, fingers plucking your strings like the finest guitar. Your knees are spread wider than when he had half his body down there. He’s watching you practically drown his hand in the wetness seeping out, his other hand holding or balancing your knee. 

He hovers above you, watching you roll and writhe and beg. His forearm is strained, his hand must be soaking, and he thinks your face contorted in pleasure might be permanently burned into his brain. There is still some part of him that knows that’s wrong. He shouldn’t have the faintest idea of what you looked like, high and blissed out of your mind, while his fingers stroke and dig and pluck and rub to drag you higher and higher – 

The pad of his middle finger brushes something spongy and you nearly slam your legs shut over his arm, if it weren’t for his free hand pinning you open. 

“Dee,” you croak, head shaking, “that was – you can’t–,”

His eyes flutter at the sound of your voice so wrecked. He needs to memorize that exact spot, save it for when you don’t have enough sanity left to push back. It’s scary, he knows, but you must be out of your goddamn mind if you thought he was going to let anything bad happen to you. 

“Look at my thumb. Baby, look down.” 

You wrench your eyes open, past your quivering chest, down his long forearm, down to where the black bullseye on the meat of the space between his thumb and palm is winking at you. 

He’s stroking you with his thumb on your clit and the bullseye winking up at you. It’s eye-fucking you and that’s enough to break you. He wants to drink whatever drips out of you as your body locks up, head thrown back, and you come. You break through and his hand curls around your knee, gently, as he watches your body crescendo for the second time that night. He sucks his fingers, almost pensively, as if he is going to carve something out of you. Remake you. Split apart your atoms and rebuild you whole. Sex as an act of re-creation. 

He kneels his way out of his pants, cock pounding red, leaking, the hot center of where his want for you is infecting him like a sickness. 

Slowly, he drags one of your knees over his shoulder, half of your body hovering just above the mattress. 

He wants to ask if you need it rough or slow. He can’t be gentle right now but he does have enough awareness to keep from hurting you. But maybe you, like him, like a little bit of pain. 

He wants you on top, wants to see you sing for him, but he knows your legs are jelly. He knows there’s a white static hum in your brain and he’s so grateful for the pleasure of it. 

He rubs the top of your thigh and noses the back of your ankle up by his ear. 

“Do you want me to put a condom on?” he asks quietly, before kissing that spot below your ankle.

“Are you clean?” He’s so fucking broad and his rings pinch your skin when he pushes too hard and he’s asking for your comfort. You also want to feel every inch of his cock and you beg him to say yes. 

He nods, suddenly irrationally thankful of Paul’s monthly mandated screenings. You get the clap once, and your fucking manager never lets you forget it. 

You huff, realizing you’re so close your cunt can almost taste it. “I-I’m on the pill. A-a-and I’m clean too.” 

As if he had ever denied you anything, as if his willpower hadn’t barely lasted four hours, you tense at the anticipation of his cock. 

He’s just as warm, just as ready, so he grabs your other ankle and draws it next to your other one against the back of his neck. He sinks back just a bit on his ankles, fingers spreading you and grabbing himself and then–

It’s like getting the wind knocked out of you and getting sprayed with a hose of fire all at once. 

“JesusfuckingChrist, you’re tight.” 

He edges deeper as he sits up right, going slow not because he hadn’t unwound you properly but because if he went any faster, he’d obsess over the idea of getting rug burns on his dick. 

“Dieter, oh God–,”

Hands leaving your ankles to wrap around your thighs, he rocks his hips back and drags out his cock just as much as the both of you can handle before thrusting forward. Again.

Again. He can’t seem to fill you enough. He wants to be bigger, thicker, girthier, if only to plug you up more. 

But, fuck, your cunt is better than your hands but only because it’s so warm and wet and throbbing and he swears his heartbeat is in his ears. 

He thrusts almost lazily, dipping his head to kiss your shin before dropping it back, your toes brushing his hair. His hands greedily squeeze your thighs, thumbs rubbing circles. 

It’s like he has to recover from the shock and sensation of fucking you. It’s too good. It’s too much. 

He’s inside of you.

If there’s a relief fund for grilled cheese, he’s going to have to donate every red cent he’s ever owned. 

Your hands clench the sheets, mouth open and, yes, beautiful tits bouncing with every thrust. It’s not them hovering above him, begging to be bitten, but it’s close and he smooths his hand down from your thigh over his chest, down your hip and he kneads your breast. 

“Oh, fuck, Dee, fuck . . . you feel so fucking good.” 

I want to die in this cunt. 

“So good, baby.” 

It’s back, that pressure that connects the backs of his eyes, to the back of his gut, all the way to his pussy-soaked cock. This time he lets it build, lets it dangle out of reach, and his thrusts become faster, hurried. You jerk beneath him and let out a full whine as if he had spanked you. 

He fucks you some more this way, just to feel that tightening in his gut, before he pulls your legs off his shoulders and you whine again, this time out of annoyance. 

He has the where-with-all to smirk.

“What, baby doesn’t like it when I take away her toys?” He pants, almost feeling light-headed. You scowl at him but don’t push back in the least as he turns you onto your hands and knees. 

“It was just starting to feel good, you a-ahh–ss–,”

He jerks his hips into you without warning, fully seating you on his cock and your head drops between your shoulders. 

“If you weren’t such a brat, you’d be kind of cute,” he murmurs as he rubs his thumb over the knots in your spine, the sensation of your cunt sucking him in almost detaching him from this plane of existence. He knows you like to be teased, with his words, with his fingers, his mouth. He wants to give you everything – anything – he’s so pussy-obsessed he can feel it like ozone in his mouth.

He never wants to stop fucking you. He’s being unstable about it. 

“You like that I’m a brat,” you say and push back with your hips. The sensation does make him stutter and you take it as a win. His rings sting as they squeeze your hips. 

He’s sliding down that pressure, winding himself up so tightly in it he wants to stop breathing – 

He starts pumping faster. The sounds that echo in that room are like music to his ears.

The sheets ruffling as your hands clench around them. The jolt of the bed as it lurches back and forth.

Your moans as he fucks every thought out of your head. “Fuck, you’re so big. It’s not fair.” 

The wet slap of his thighs meeting yours. 

And it all narrows down, the universe closing to a single focal point–  all of it runs right to his cock rubbing up inside your cunt like it owns the place.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck,” you groan, head down. “Please – please fuck me harder, Uncle Dieter.” 

With a growl that surprised even him, he drops forward, one hand anchoring himself to your hip and the other coming up around your throat. You gasp as his fingers dig painfully into your skin. He pulls you both up right, nose in your ear and teeth tight in his jaw. 

He punctuates every word with a particularly brutal thrust that gnaws at something truly devastating inside you. 

“Don’t – fucking – call me that – while – I’m inside – you–,”

You turn your head, flush with his and the hand that’s on your throat slides up to your cheek and he holds you there, pins you there as his cock pounds the daylights out of you. 

“Say my name.” He husks. There’s something cataclysmic happening inside your cunt and he has the launch codes. 

You can’t remember feeling so full before. So up your eyes and your mouth and your ears and your heart – God, maybe there really hadn’t been anyone before him. 

“Oh, fuck, Dieter,”

“No, honey, my real name.” 

Your eyes flicker open and something in his chest roars. He’ll kiss you after this. He’ll kiss you so hard you end up on another fucking planet. 

“David.” 

The sweat on his temples mixes with yours and he wants to smear himself in your fluids. This close, his beard and mustache rub roughly against your skin and you wonder how long the burn will last after all this. You’re clenching his arm, clenching his lower back to you, you think you’ll make him bleed in half-moon cuts of blood. 

“All of it. All of it, baby girl,” he whispers to your cheek, your jaw. “Say it. I need to hear it. I need to hear it from you.” 

Your fucked-out mind spins, clutching at the memories of the past, to a name you hadn’t heard in a decade, while the man you’ve known all your life threatens to undo your sanity. You lock eyes with him, the precipice of something so large and looming, you can’t wait to be crushed by it.

“Davíd Moralés.” 

And that bastard’s cock intentionally pushes against that spongy spot and you shriek. Honest to God, yell, as you come, with Dieter wrapped up against your back, sweat streaking both of you.

“Get down,” he hisses suddenly and almost throws you off him. You land on your back, your entire body pulsing as one single organism, and he grabs his cock in time to aim it at your chest. 

He comes, mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, as he sprays you with white ropes. It’s warm on your tits and you shudder through your aftershocks. You feel like you’re sinking into warmth as he keeps coming, your inner thighs drenched and dripping, and finally, he leans away and collapses on the bed next to you.

There’s ringing in your ears. 

You feel swollen all over, your nerve centers humming and firing and crackling as though someone whapped you over the head with a 500 volt electric baton. You want to keep sinking, keep drifting, keep existing in this warm, non-corporeal form. Everything feels so good here.

You had no idea you, or anyone else for that matter, could come that hard. 

“Holy shit.” 

You can’t help but grin through the short huffs of breath you swallow down in gasps. 

You want to sass him but it feels a bit like spitting in the face of God. “Yeah. Holy shit.” 

He sits up on his elbows, glancing over his side at you, the begrudgingly fantastic cock between his legs as deflated as you are. 

“Are you okay? Fuck, sorry, I got a little crazy there at the end.” 

You shake your fist loosely, with your thumb and pinky finger extended. “I don’t hear customer service calling. In fact, I think the line has been permanently disconnected.” 

You both laugh softly and his eyes roam over your face. This is why he only saw vampy women. It was easier to wake up to something almost over-the-top hot, than this. Than you, with your beautifully flushed cheeks, plump lips, and eyes that searched only for him. 

His gut twisted painfully. Okay, you nutted so hard you’re pretty sure your dick isn’t going to work for a week, now wake up. Wake up and smell the fucking arrest warrant. 

Uncle Dieter. You're his niece. 

What the fuck were you thinking? Where could this possibly go?

Instead of inspecting the small-starting-to-grow painful throbbing in his chest, he sits up and pleasantly inspects the mess you both made all over you. You follow his gaze, smirking as he intentionally smears his cum over your skin with his thumb.

“Oh, and that thing you did at the end, where you made me–,”

“Yeah?” He grinned wickedly, almost begging you to use your words, but you had been so good for him. He’d save that for later. “You liked that?”

“At the risk of sounding desperate, yes. A thousand times yes. But totally unfair and totally cheating.”

He snickers and leans down to your thighs. “Yeah, okay, Ms. I’m Not Wearing a Bra.” 

The smell of you is intoxicating and it’s drenching your thighs, the sheets below you. Maybe he could strip the bed before Maria came – oh, fuck, what if it’s in the mattress?

He hauls those thoughts out of his mind, his dick twitching uncomfortably, as he bends forward and licks the inside of your thigh.

“Oh my God, Dee, you can’t possibly be –,”

“Relax. I’m not. Just wanted to clean you up.”

He licks the drying liquid from your skin – you hiss, so very overstimulated – dragging his tongue up, never breaking eye contact with you as he slinks up your body, shoulders rolling – “Dee, wait, you’re gonna–,” and licks the cum off your chest. His own cum. 

“Oh, fuck, that’s nasty,” you murmur, eyes transfixed on his mouth as he swallows. He chuckles, finally deciding you’ve had enough for one night, and he leans forward and presses his lips on your temple. 

“I’m not ready, but it sounds like you might be.” 

He reaches back to the floor where his shirt was so casually discarded. He gingerly wipes your thighs, your hips, your stomach and chest. There’d be time for a proper wash later, but right now he thinks he’s going to pitch forward into unconsciousness in less than thirty seconds. His limbs are heavy, his eyelids are heavy but he can’t stop smiling.

You grin at him as he tosses the very used shirt back onto the ground and gets up from the bed to disappear into the bathroom. You roll onto your side, after unpeeling the bedsheets like you had done it a thousand times. When he comes back, you rub your face against his pillows and he realizes if he’s going to hoard the sheets, then he’s going to have to do the same to the pillowcase. 

“I’m not gonna wake up and find you mouthing that shirt, am I?” You ask, a smirk already cradling your lips. He huffs at you as he hands you a glass of water. You take it, gratefully, only vaguely aware that he probably did that kind of thing all the time with his other conquests. 

That thought threatens to sour your good mood so you put the glass back onto the bedside table and curl deeper into the sheets. 

He climbs in behind you, and rubs his nose over your shoulder and up into your ear, his hand spread across your hip. 

“Only if I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t mouth your tits.” 

He’s purposefully being sexy, being teasing, but there’s a question there. A request. A quiet ask that for all his thick dick swinging, doesn’t have the cojones to verbalize. 

 You smirk at him and roll back slightly to catch his mouth. You thread your fingers through his hair and squeeze once. 

“Baby, I couldn’t stand up right if I fucking tried.”

He grins, eyes warm. “Wow. Even if you fucking tried?”

God, this is such a bad idea.

“Even if I fuck-in’ tried.” 

But despite all his not-at-all begging, he wakes up alone. 

He wakes up in broad daylight – the storm had passed. Too bright light streams in from between the gray curtains, illuminating the one thing he never wanted to see: your side of the bed empty. 

His heart clenches so fast he thinks he might be sick. There’s real nausea as he stumbles to his feet and pulls his pants on from last night. He’s about to rush down the stairs, frantically flipping over everything in hopes of finding a note, even if it told him to fuck off. 

You’re twenty years older than me, you fucking creep.

Just wait until my dad hears about this. 

I never want to see you again. 

Just as his mouth dries up till his lips crack, he sees something on the other side of the bed that makes him freeze in his tracks. It’s your phone, plugged into the wall. He goes over and taps the screen. The battery has only 15%. 

And then a post-storm breeze rattles the patio door handle and it opens slightly. He sees your barefoot through the cut in the door frame. 

Holy fuck, you’re still here, just outside. 

Heart now jettisoning into his throat, he opens the door to a truly spectacular morning. His patio looks down to the freshly-washed Los Angeles, the sky a cobalt blue, the air cool and faintly smelling of rain. People run and lead their dogs through the streets and for a minute he thinks he can hear the ocean. 

But what makes it truly spectacular is you. Curled up at the small table in one of his white shirts and those sanctimonious shorts. You’ve got a cup of coffee in your hand and you’ve got his favorite book, Eco’s The Name of the Rose, lying flat beneath your fingertips. But you aren’t reading. You’re looking at him.

“Well, hi there. Did you dream you missed a flight?”

He blinks. “What?” 

“You just, sort of, rushed out here, looking like you forgot something.” You frown. “Is everything okay?”

He swallows and it’s all he can do to keep from dropping to his knees and pressing his face into your lap. 

“Yeah, fine, fine. All good. Fine.” 

You turn back to the book, staring at it as if it was giving you a pep talk. Then you shut it and turn back to him.

“So, um, last night . . .” 

Here it comes. I regret it, all of it. You drugged me and took advantage of me. I can’t believe that you would–

“Was great.” 

He swears he hears his blood rushing in his ears. You smile at him, but clearly uneasy. As if you are the one second-guessing it all. 

Fuck, Bravo, put on your big boy pants.

He pulls out the other patio chair and sits down next to you. He clasps his hands, leaning forward on his elbows. His rings clink together. He nods, trying to catch your eyes.

“Yeah. It was fucking fantastic. I mean it. One for the books.”

He waits for you to say but. 

You wait for him to say but.

Neither of you do. You grin and put your coffee on the table. 

“So, in the events of last night . . . surprisingly, I forgot to charge my phone.”

He doesn’t want to touch you because he thinks it might spook you so he runs his gaze over your lovely knuckles, your wrist. 

“Sounds like, then, you might need to stay awhile.” 

You swallow, unable to contain the growing smile on your face. You duck your head and he follows you and your breath fans his face. 

“Guess so.” 

If he tells it, he says he kissed you.

If you tell it, you say you kissed him. 

Doesn’t matter though. Doesn’t matter that the coffee grows cold and he ignites something in you that you didn’t know existed.

When he finally pulls away, he’s still smiling. 

“This might be a bit weird, but . . . wanna see my other kitchen?”

The End

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x you #f!reader #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo fic #dieter bravo fanfic #pedro pascal fanfic #the bubble fic #the bubble fanfic

[ghosts-and-glory]

Gonna be honest, no idea what that last asker was talking about when they said Narinder deserved purgatory more. The guy is messed up, don't get me wrong, but the sheep genocide was completely out of his control. There isn't even any evidence that he got locked up for anything other than inventing a way to revive followers!

Narinder is much more palatable than the bishops and the fandom tends to forget that making him pissy/angry all the time is actually pretty ooc (ESPECIALLY considering the time it took between updates). He liked you as a god, he was mad for a while as a follower, AND THEN HE SAID HE RESPECTED YOU AS A GOD BEFORE YOU EVEN FULLY FINISHED HIS QUEST LINE!

Tldr; Narinder isn't as bad as the bishops, torture is cringe unless it's character building :)

That cat spent a thousand years being punished, let him rest. He’s been punished for his betrayal, a thousand years of it. During the game his crime is trying to escape a prison that he would never be allowed out of. He’s given no opportunity to reform, no time to rest and no end in sight.

I do enjoy it when follower Narinder is a bitch, I just want him to be mean to me is that too much to ask?

I’m a chronic adhd rambler and I hate scrolling by long posts. More thoughts on Narinder under the cut.

I do think this bit of dialogue is telling.

If you resurrect he seems to imply that resurrection is what started him towards his betrayal. He points out specifically that that there are no other gods to stop you from playing with life and death, this action makes him see himself in The Lamb. His reaction to the funeral is more reserved. Maybe he’s disappointed, maybe he feels some level of relief that you wouldn’t repeat his actions, maybe a bit of both.

And there’s his dialogue after his defeat.

I was originally gonna say something about his murder dialogue but I got distracted by how fucked up he is. Narinder, baby, I know you’re the god of death but begging to die is not normal.

But yeah the point that he seems to respect the Lamb’s godhood kinda supports my game theory that the Lamb is more death than Narinder. At the end of his godhood Nari was corrupt, driven by revenge and power. Depending on your actions as the Lamb you are now either walking the same corrupt path as he did, respecting the natural order of life and granting rest, or a bit of both.

I do think its easiest to love Narinder out of all of the npcs in the game. Yeah okay he’s evil in that good tumbly sexler man kinda way but he’s also the character with the most content. He has the most dialogue, you meet with him the most, he’s got the hardest boss battle with unique mechanics. I get why he’s the fan favourite and why people like Narilamb, what gayer than being character foils? Nothing.

He’s my little meow meow and I’m mean to him cause I love him. Mwah.

#my post #cult of the lamb #cotl narinder #I want to pick apart these characters so much #spinning nari in my head #Nathan Drawfee said tumbly sexler man and I haven’t been the same since #ask

[atlabeth]

(not so) simple pt3 - anthony bridgerton

pt1 pt2 pt4

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn’t.

a/n: so first of all let me apologize for how long it took for this to come out. literally nine months. a whole baby has passed. i lost my bridgerton inspo HARD but like i always want anthony bridgerton even if it's deep within me and that just came through today as i finally pushed through and finished it. hopefully you guys still care about this series because i sure do and the end is in sight, like i literally have most of it written i just have to do the in between parts and connect it all and this horrible wonderful terrible amazing mini series that has killed me will be done. anyways here she is and i hope you enjoy!!

wc: 9.7k

warning(s): historical inaccuracies, fluff, angst, a lil bit of violence/injuries, a cliffhanger that will make you want to kill me. yn is going kind of crazy because she's never felt pleasant emotions before

The next month was akin to a blur. With each day your mother grew more and more excited about your courtship with Anthony, so much so she’d even begun knitting a blanket as a wedding gift to the Bridgertons. 

(When she’d first told you about it over dinner, you’d nearly choked. You were beginning to dread telling her the truth more than you dreaded your fake courtship). 

That, perhaps, was beginning to become a lie. Dread was not the proper word for how you felt about your courtship. 

It was still strange, knowing that everyone around you believed you and Anthony were to be married. Though your secret was still one well-kept, you could hardly contain yourself whenever you overheard snide remarks with you at the center—it seemed they had still not gotten over the fact that their precious opportunity at becoming a Bridgerton had been stolen by you. Perhaps their daughters would get their chance in the next season, once you and Anthony had broken things off. 

But that was not enough to hold his image in the same sour view as before.

Anthony was irritating as ever, yes, and but he was no longer the mere rake, the sarcastic older brother who firmly believed you were running out of time, the womanizer Lady Whistledown painted him as. 

At least, you did not see him as such. He certainly did not act that way around you anymore. 

Anthony Bridgerton was lighter around you—he smiled more, laughed more, joked around with you in a way that Benedict told you he hadn’t seen in years. And of course, he was only able to tell you that because Anthony brought you along on outings with his family. 

The Worthings had always been friendly throughout the years with the Bridgertons, especially because of your closeness with Eloise and, more so when you were younger and before her debut, Daphne. You were fond of the rest of the family as well, Benedict and Colin looking on you fondly as that of an annoying younger sister much like Eloise—you were happy to fill the role. Francesca was pleasant when she wasn’t off traveling, and Gregory and Hyacinth were always a delight. Hyacinth seemed more attached to you because of the courtship, and truly looked forward to welcoming you as a sister. 

Anthony had always been the older brother that foiled your fun with Eloise, that urged you to take your role more seriously if for no other reason than to influence Eloise down the path as well. 

Now you felt closer than ever to him, and though it was merely for your ruse, you couldn’t help but enjoy it. 

Stranger yet, though, was how your image of Anthony had changed since that first dance the night you agreed to this ruse. When at first you could only stand his company because of the promise of continuous jabs and protection from suitors, you now found that you actually… enjoyed being around him. You recalled the night out in the Bridgerton gardens with Anthony far more than you should have.

He certainly had no right to keep you awake at such late hours the way he did. 

You no longer despaired early wakings to promenade with him, no longer wrinkled your nose at the prospect of dancing with him. Though you still dreaded the glitz and the glamour of the ton all the same, Anthony himself did not spurn the same response. 

Of that, you did not know exactly what to think, but you supposed the absence of misery was something to celebrate. 

You and the viscount were becoming friends. You enjoyed his presence. You began to look forward to your next outing with him, time spent with him outweighing your dislike of early wakings. 

You were a frequent visitor of Bridgerton family outings because of your friendship with Eloise, and you only found yourself more involved with their picnics and promenades through Anthony. 

Invitations found their way to your doorstep far more often because of the Bridgerton name attached to yours, and you found you enjoyed them more on Anthony’s arm. 

You attended operas together in their private box. He frequently called on you, leading to conversations in your drawing room and promenades all about. You dined with them at least once a week, always sitting next to Anthony and whispering things to each other throughout. 

In addition to the time you spent with Eloise, your proximity to the Bridgertons, especially Anthony, was near constant.  

And you enjoyed every moment of it. 

Truly, there was something very wrong with you. 

But perhaps the strangest of all was your newfound fame. If there were ever any hope of keeping your ruse even the slightest bit secret, it was crushed by virtue of Lady Whistledown, who aided you with your most fantastical feat yet—you were mentioned by name in every single edition she’d published since the night you and Anthony partook in your first dance together. The ton knew you well now, far too well, and even when you were not around the viscount you were attuned to the glances and whispers of gossips. 

You found it interesting how easily you had become a source of intrigue, simply because it looked as if you were the object of Anthony’s affections—but you also found it largely annoying. You did not much like the attention. 

Running off to the country sounded better and better with every passing day. 

“I swear,” you muttered as you went through the stack of pamphlets, “news of our relationship makes up half of Whistledown’s repertoire these days. Truly, we should get a cut of her wages for providing so much material for her.” 

Anthony’s lips quirked up in a smile. The two of you were sat in your drawing room, chaperoned as usual by Julia, a stack containing each edition of Lady Whistledown during the length of the season set between the two of you. It was past the traditional hours of a caller, but the “advancement” of your “relationship” allowed Anthony leeway. He had brought with him yet another pamphlet of Lady Whistledown, which Eloise had confronted him with after getting her hands on it. 

“We do seem to be quite popular,” he agreed. “But at least that will make it easier for the news of our parting to spread.” 

“I just wish she did not make it so dramatic,” you huffed, and you picked up the most recent edition that Anthony had brought. You brought up the pitch of your voice and made your accent as haughty as possible as you read the printed words:

“The mystery that is the Viscount Bridgerton and Miss Worthing continues to unravel. The two were sighted together in a box at the newly redecorated Adelphi Theatre, admiring the opening night of Rossini’s Tancredi. I begrudgingly commend them on the taste in opera; I too, am a fan of Voltaire. One can only wonder the sort of activity they commenced in with their privacy.”

Anthony allowed himself a laugh as you shook your head and let out a sigh. “It’s ridiculous. She makes it sound as if we are engaging in the most scandalous behavior there is, when we were merely watching the opera! The only activity we commenced in was discussion.” You set the pamphlet down on the table with a huff. “It was quite intellectual discussion, if I do say so myself.” 

“Certainly,” he said with a nod, and he smiled wryly. “Are you saying you are not a fan of all this attention, though? Surely it is your dream for every member of the ton to know of you and your exploits.” 

“I am certainly not—” you began, but your attention was drawn to the doors as your mother walked inside. 

“Lord Bridgerton!” she exclaimed as a smile tugged at her lips. Though your mother looked happy, you saw through the practiced expression—she held a letter in her hands, turning it over and over as if to calm nervous energy. “How lovely to see you here.” 

“It is just as lovely to see you, Lady Worthing,” Anthony greeted, the charm flowing effortlessly through his words. “And may I just say how effervescent you look, even at this late hour?” 

Your mother smiled. “You know exactly what to say to get yourself out of trouble, don’t you?” 

“It is a virtue,” Anthony joked, and when he stood up you did as well. “I apologize if I have overstayed my welcome—I simply enjoy your daughter’s presence far too much. She is a sure credit to your family.” 

“Oh, it is of no mind,” she said, brushing her hand through the air. “I always enjoy having the Bridgertons over. You are no exception.”

“You flatter me so, Lady Worthing, but I must insist I take my leave.” He bowed to her and then turned to you, taking your hand in his and pressing a delicate kiss to the back of your palm. “I bid you a good night, my lady.”

You suppressed the flutter in your chest at his touch. Your hands were typically gloved whenever you held hands during dances or promenades, but not at this hour. His lips against your bare skin made your breath catch for a moment, even for such a slight occurrence. 

“I can escort you to the door,” you said, smiling through the uncertainty in your chest. 

Anthony nodded, a small smile on his lips as well. “I welcome your company, my lady.”

Anthony offered his arm and you took it, and you could sense the excitement from your mother even from afar.

“Do not stay out too long, you two!” she called with a grin as you strolled out the door, and you had to stifle your laugh.

“You are going to be the death of me, Miss Worthing,” Anthony murmured in your ear as you walked out, his breath tickling your skin.

“Not if you get to me first,” you countered. 

“I think the opposite is far more likely,” he said. 

“How so?” you said, feigning disbelief. “You are the one keeping me up past natural hours with your presence. You are the one dragging me with you into Whistledown infamy.”

“But you are the one who got me into this in the first place.” Anthony glanced at you. “Quite the predicament, I might say.”

“Oh, do not act as if you are not enjoying it by now,” you said. “We are friends at this point, yes?”

A small smile quirked on his lips. “I suppose so.”

Again, that warmth in your chest. If Anthony knew, he would surely understand that he was far more likely to be your undoing than the other way around.

You reached the doors, and when you opened one and peeked outside, there was a notable absence of a carriage.

“My deepest apologies Viscount Bridgerton.” You turned around to see your head maid hurrying across the floor, slightly out of breath. “There has been a miscommunication between our two estates—your carriage will arrive, but it will be delayed. It should not be too long a wait, albeit, but—” 

“It is of no worry,” Anthony interrupted, bowing his head. “I thank you for your dedication. Please, enjoy the rest of your night.”

She looked to you for confirmation and you nodded. “Thank you, Emma. You can retire for the night.”

She smiled gratefully. “I appreciate your kindness, my lady. It shall be here soon.”

You let go of Anthony’s arm as she began walking to the servant’s quarters and you pushed the door open again.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“We have time to waste,” you said, looking back at him mischievously. “Do you trust me?”

“…You make it seem as if I shouldn’t,” Anthony said.

“Oh, relax. We have some time to ourselves and a night sky above us. Surely you can indulge me once.” 

“I believe I have indulged you far more than once,” Anthony said, but he followed you anyway. He planted his hand against the door, taking the weight off of yours, and for some reason even that act made you take a deep breath. 

Thank God for the cool air, you thought hastily as you stepped outside, because your cheeks were burning for no good reason. 

“I apologize on Emma’s behalf for the delay,” you said, thankful that he was following slightly behind you. “The Worthing estate has been in a state of disarray lately. I try to help around, but my mother insists it’s not my place.”

“I already said it was a nonissue,” Anthony said, and you bit your lip as he took a step closer and put you on equal ground. You’d no idea what was wrong with you.

“And I thank you for your continued grace, but I still feel as if I must apologize anyway,” you said. “You likely know of our… monetary issues.”

His brows knit together. “Of course, but that means nothing. Of your status, I mean.” 

You smiled a bit. “To you, perhaps. But my mother is so ashamed of our lack of staff, she hardly ever has her friends over for tea anymore. We’ve never been able to afford much, but we had to let many of our staff go over the past summer.” 

“It is noticeable. You’ve no doormen, few maids and servants,” Anthony said. “But it shouldn’t matter to any true gentleman.”

“I suppose that makes you a true gentleman, doesn’t it?” you said playfully.

Anthony chuckled. “After all the years my mother has spent trying to turn me into one, she would certainly hope so.”

“That is why this is all such a problem.” You glanced at him. “Why my mother is so delighted of our courtship. She believes you will be my— our entire family’s— saving grace upon marriage.” 

“Quite the burden upon us,” he said dryly, though his words did not hold the usual humor. There was a certain solemnity about him. 

“Indeed.” You sighed. “Our ruse frees me from the hand of other men for this season, but there is still the problem of… of what awaits.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, the night chill beginning to get to you along with something else. “I am certain I will think of a plan eventually, but still I worry more each day of what I will do when it is all over.” 

Anthony didn’t say anything, and you didn’t fill the silence though you felt his gaze upon you. Suddenly, though, you felt the heaviness of fabric over your arms. 

Anthony’s jacket, you realized when you looked at him. Your lips parted, words stuck in your throat, but he didn’t give you the chance to get them out. 

“You were cold,” he shrugged, answering your question before you could ask it. “It would be unfathomably rude to force my dearest betrothed to freeze.”

“You noticed,” you said. 

“Always,” Anthony said. 

You care.

You could not help but stare at him, if not just for a moment, because— because God, the man was beautiful. There lay no use in denying it. There was a reason that, despite being the ton’s most infamous rake, he was still so desired by countless ladies. 

His eyes almost as dark as the night around you holding a kindness he didn’t share with many, his white undershirt with slightly-rolled sleeves in stark contrast to it all, the curve of his jaw and the slope of his nose and the barest coif of his chestnut hair.

He was beautiful, and he was the one thing you could not have. 

“Miss Worthing?” 

Which did not matter, because you did not want him. 

“My apologies.” You blinked and cleared your throat, Anthony breaking you out of your spell, and you gestured with your head as you continued along your way. Heat burned inside of you, all the way from the tips of your ears to the soles of your feet, and you could hardly stand it.

“You seem… distracted,” he said. 

That was one way to describe it.  

“Apologies,” you repeated with the slightest of smiles. “I’m merely… in my head, is all.” 

This was all fake. You had to remember that, even if you had to bash it into your head for it to stick. The charm practically oozed off of him, and though you’d been near immune to it when you were able to despise Anthony, it was much more difficult not to fall victim to it now that you considered each other… friends.

You are a lady, and he is a gentleman, you could picture your mother saying. It is nature’s oldest tale. There is no shame in it. 

He is my brother, and you hate him, you heard Eloise scoffing in the same vein. The thought made you smile. 

“Where are you taking me, Miss Worthing?” Anthony’s coy voice brought you out of your stupor once again, and you blinked. 

As you looked around, you realized you’d already made it there. You turned to Anthony with a smile, your hands out as you gestured at the open field of grass behind your estate. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you asked. “I’ve brought you here to stargaze.” 

“Stargazing,” he repeated, and he laughed a bit. “I’ve never…” 

“You’ve never stargazed?” you finished, and he nodded. “It makes sense. A serious viscount such as yourself cannot be bothered with such frivolities.” 

Anthony shrugged. “If you enjoy it, I would love to try.”

“It isn’t something you try so much as you just do,” you said as you sat down on the ground. You smoothed out your skirts and then looked up at Anthony, amused by the expression on his face. 

“It’s alright, my lord,” you said. “I promise, the grass will not hurt you. My maids have worked out many a stain in my youth, so I assure you that will be alright as well.” 

“I have a carriage coming,” he said. 

“They can wait,” you said. “Can they not?” 

He hesitated for a moment, and then his lips quirked into the slightest smile as he took a seat next to you. You took his hand, ignoring the skip of your heart, and you pulled him back so you were both lying down. 

“How do you feel?” you asked. “Have you fallen ill yet?” 

“Very funny,” Anthony said wryly. “I am just fine. Your worries are much appreciated.” 

“I would never worry about the great Viscount Bridgerton,” you said haughtily. “He has everything handled at all times.” 

“Hardly,” he countered, and he let out a sigh. “Lately it seems as if I’ve got nothing handled at all.” 

You made a noncommittal noise. “Then you are quite the actor, my lord. You’re very good at looking perfect.” 

“You think I look perfect?” 

You turned your head to see Anthony looked at you, a sly smile on his lips, and though your rolled your eyes you could not hold back your amusement. 

“Yes, Viscount Bridgerton,” you said playfully. “Quite perfect.” 

“It is good to know that my betrothed no longer hates me.” Anthony allowed one of his hands to rest in the grass, and you could feel his eyes on you. 

“Oh, we are not betrothed yet,” you said offhandedly. “The way my mother acts, though, you would certainly think so.” 

“Well, then,” Anthony said, “would you further prove your devotion by showing me some of your constellations?” 

You chuckled. “Of course.” 

Your gaze turned to the sky, squinting slightly as you searched for your favorite. When you did, you made a sound of triumph and you sat up on your elbows. “There— do you see those? 

He frowned as he pushed himself up as well, and in his focus he unconsciously leaned closer to you. “I do not see anything,” Anthony said, and you laughed. 

“Right…” you shifted closer to him, and you took his hand in yours as you held it up to the sky. “There.” You traced the outline with his finger, and you glanced at him. “Do you see it now?” 

“I do, but…” Anthony’s lips twitched into a smile for a moment. “It is just… lines. A triangle with lines.” 

You laughed, full and bright. “It is, that much is true. But it is the constellation of Libra, in relation to astrology.” 

“I did not know you were educated on astrology.” 

“Oh, I am certainly not,” you said. “But it is the sign of my mother’s birth month, and it was the first constellation she taught me to find. Now, it is always the first one I seek out on nights such as these.” 

His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “You used to stargaze with your mother?” 

You hadn’t truly realized the implications of what you’d said until his words, and you paused for a moment before you took your hand away from his and laid back down. 

“It is alright if you do not want to talk about it,” Anthony said softly. 

“It is not that,” you said, and you sighed. “It is just… that the relationship I have with my mother is a complicated one.” 

You felt Anthony’s eyes on you still, and you bit your lip. 

“I have always felt so small whenever I look to the stars,” you murmured. “I think it is part of the reason I still do it— for the perspective. To remind myself of how minuscule I am in the broad scheme of things.”

“I… think I feel the opposite, funnily enough,” Anthony said. “I do not stargaze, obviously, but I have always viewed an individual’s contribution as meaning far more than I can even imagine. Each and every person who has walked through my life has made some sort of impact— you have been, and still are, one of those.” He looked over at you with a surprisingly earnest expression. “You are certainly not minuscule. Not by any sort of margin.”

You found your cheeks heating up from his words, and you could not hold back your smile. “Why, Lord Bridgerton, that was quite a compliment. Are you sure you are feeling well?”

“I feel wonderful,” he said, his eyes still not leaving yours. You felt your cheeks heat and you had to look away. 

“I know my mother only wants what is best for me. She pushes me so because there is no other choice, and she truly believes that it will just… click for me someday.” You pulled Anthony’s jacket tighter around your arms, but it was of no aid when the chills came from within. “And I feel as if I am failing my entire family by not being able to accept it.” 

“I understand what it is like to have the weight of your bloodline on your shoulders,” Anthony said after a moment’s hesitation. “It is my job to ensure that my family stays afloat, that our finances are handled, that my siblings are provided for, that everything runs smoothly without a hitch. It is…” he huffed a small laugh. “It is overwhelming, I cannot lie. But it is my responsibility as the head of house, and so I take it on.” 

“You are saying that I should pursue a real courtship,” you said dryly. 

“That is not what I am saying,” Anthony countered with a glance at you. “You were correct when you said that I could leave at any time if I so desired. I do not, but if I wanted to, I could. I am pushed on through even the most difficult moments because of my love for my family. Everything I do is for them.” 

“I still am not following.” 

“If you want to be happy, then you must find your motivations,” Anthony finally said, “and you must follow where they lead you. No matter where that is.”

“So you are supporting my ill-advised rebellion.” You sat up, looking down at him with the beginnings of a smile. “Is that it?” 

“I thought that quite obvious the moment I agreed to this ruse,” he responded wryly. “You are a bad influence, Miss Worthing. I am a man of honor.” 

“Of course.” Your words were laced with mock austerity, and you sighed. “I just do not understand why I was born the sole daughter of a struggling family. It seems a cruel joke when there is none I despise more than marriage.” 

“We are quite similar, you know,” Anthony said offhandedly. “We both have the fate of our families on our shoulders, and we both know what we must do for our name. It should be woefully easy, but… it isn’t.” 

You shook your head. “We are not similar, my lord. Perhaps in structure, but not in much else.” 

He raised his eyebrows, silently urging you to go forward. 

“You are a man,” you said simply, “and you have everything because of it. You can have whatever life you please. It is not required of you to marry, though your mother might like it to have an heir from the first son. But I have nothing— I am nothing— without a man. The life that I so desperately want is one that I will never be able to have, not without giving up everything I hold dear.” 

You swallowed thickly in your throat, turning away from Anthony to not give him a view of your imminent tears. “I either have to marry a man I will never love or abandon my family and become a disgrace, but I do not want either. It is as Eloise has always said — I just want so desperately to fly. Unfortunately, my wings are doomed to be clipped.” 

“Miss Worthing…” Anthony started, but he trailed off just as quickly. He could not seem to find the right words to quell your worries, and it infuriated him beyond any sort of reason. He did not have a way with words like Eloise, he did not have the effortless charm of Colin nor the presence of Benedict, and he most certainly was not able to comfort others like Daphne — and yet the need to fix problems he himself was incapable of fixing washed over him so suddenly and so intensely he could hardly bear it. 

“I am truly sorry.” It took him far too long to break the silence that hung in the air, only punctured once by your sharp intake of breath in an attempt to hold back tears. “I wish there was more I could do for you. There should be more I could do for you as a viscount, but…”

Sure that you would be able to hold back any tears should they decide to pester you once more, you turned to face Anthony with what you hoped was a convincing smile. “You need not apologize, my lord. You have already done far more for me than any rational man should have in your position.” 

“One could argue it is because of you I’ve done all this,” he said. “You have a way about you that makes a rational man want nothing more than irrationality.” 

That brought a genuine smile to your face, thankfully able to avoid the tears you thought were sure to come. 

“You flatter me, Lord Bridgerton,” you said wryly. 

“Anthony,” he said, and you blinked. 

“Pardon?” 

“I believe we are far past Lord Bridgerton,” he explained with a slight smile. “What, with how many times you have bared your soul to me this season, I should think Anthony is perfectly acceptable.” 

You felt your cheeks heat up under his warm gaze as you nodded. “Then Anthony it shall be.”

Trying to recover from the embarrassingly soft moment, you cleared your throat and turned away once more. “Of course, your permission is not needed to refer to you as your name rather than a title, but I suppose it cannot hurt.” 

This time, the smile was nearly palpable in his words. “Of course, Miss Worthing.” 

You shook your head as you said your name. “If I am to call you Anthony, you shall call me by my given name as well. It is only fair.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “When has fairness ever been a concern of yours in regards to me?” 

“Anthony,” you said, though not without slight mirth, “will you do it?” 

“If it is what you desire.” Anthony then said your name, and you could not deny how your chest spurned in such a way at the sound. 

There was so much you yearned to say, so much on the tip of your tongue, nearly all of it relating to the man in front of you. How could there be so much of him on your mind, when just a mere fortnight ago you were joking with him about how much you could not stand him?

After ensuring none of your inner emotions were visible on your face, you turned back to him and offered a small smile. “It certainly is.”

But as he smiled back at you, that slight quirk of his lips that softened his features and brought out the light in his eyes that you had grown to appreciate but he did not have nearly enough…

You feared you were beginning to desire much more. 

You looked at the sky above, and the stars twinkling back at you suddenly made you remember as you turned back to Anthony. 

“We should get back,” you said. “It would be woefully inappropriate for a man of honor to miss his carriage.” 

His lips twitched at your words. “You end our outing so soon?”

“You were against it in the first place,” you pointed out. “And I believe this has lasted far longer than I initially planned.” 

“I was also against your ruse,” Anthony said, and when he stood up, he offered his hand. “But you seem to be quite skilled at changing my mind.” 

It was so different from all the others, when he offered his arm for a promenade or took you to the dance floor, and it was why you hesitated. But you pushed the thought aside as you took it, and Anthony pulled you up from the ground. 

“I suppose I am,” you joked.

“Thank you for this.” He brushed off his clothes, a smile as genuine as the others pulling at his lips. “It was enjoyable.” 

“Just enjoyable?” you asked playfully. 

“My apologies,” Anthony said. “This was fantastic. Incredible. Is life-changing satisfactory?” 

You nodded, biting back your smile. “I believe so. Nothing with me is anything less than life-changing.” 

“That is certain,” he agreed.

Anthony offered his arm and the two of you began walking back to the front of your estate. The silence was comfortable as it lingered in the air, only broken once you stopped in front of the carriage that he was indeed late for. 

“I do mean it,” Anthony said, “my thanks for this. Sincerely so.” 

“Of course,” you said. “If you ever find you are in need of some stars, my yard is always open.” 

His lips quirked into a slight smile. “The stars do not have much meaning without you beside me to give them one.” 

You huffed a slight laugh as your gaze turned upwards again. “Well, that is Cassiopeia,” you said with a gesture at the sky, and you managed a wry smile. “Though you will probably just see more lines.” 

“If you tell me they are more than lines, then they are more than lines,” Anthony said. “That much, I know.” 

You felt the warmth rise to your cheeks, and you curtsied to him. “I will see you tomorrow, Lord Bridgerton.” 

“I will see you tomorrow.” Anthony hesitated, gazing into your eyes with abandon. He lifted your hand and pressed a gentle kiss to it, murmuring your name before he let it go. 

And then he entered the carriage, though there was some form of reluctance in his movements. You waited until his departure, even longer after until he and his men were nothing but a speck in the distance, and it wasn’t until then that you could breathe freely. 

“My lady?”

Your focus was broken at the sound of your lady’s maid’s voice, and you blinked a multitude of times as you turned around.

“Julia,” you said. “What brings you here?”

“You, my lady,” she said with a slight laugh. “You’ve just been… standing out here. Alone. Doing nothing.”

“My apologies,” you said with a practiced smile, though you wrought your hands together. “I appear to be in my head tonight. You needn’t come out here for me.”

“I wanted to make sure you were alright,” Julia said. “Is the viscount gone?”

“He is. I saw him off.” The skin where his lips touched still burned, and you felt a swell of something inside of you. “I— I should be settling in for the night.”

You began walking in at a hasty pace, but Julia easily matched it. “Of course. I will help you get ready.”

You shook your head, and you couldn’t help but cast one last glance out the door before it closed. You cleared your throat and looked back at Julia. “All I request is that you help me into my dressing gown, and then you can retire. I would like some solitude tonight.”

She nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

“Is my mother still awake?” you asked as the two of you walked up the stairs together.

“No,” Julia said. “She retired shortly after you and the viscount took your leave.”

“Good,” you murmured. You did not think you could deal with her much tonight. Not after… whatever it was that went on between you and him. 

Julia did as asked, helping you out of your layers and into your nightgown before she took her leave. 

Lying in bed alone, you found yourself staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep. 

All you could think of was Anthony. His eyes boring into yours, the heat of his lips against your bare hand, his willingness to do something he likely saw as ridiculous merely because it made you happy. The weight of his jacket against your shoulders, the attentiveness he had towards you for him to have realized. 

The softness with which he said your name, every syllable a symphony in your ears, more beautiful than anything simply because Anthony spoke it. 

Oh. 

Your heart hammered in your chest as the realization struck. 

Oh. 

You were doomed. 

-

Split down the middle. It was an apt designation for how you felt in the coming days and weeks. 

One part of you—the idiot, lovesick part—wanted nothing but to spend more time with Anthony Bridgerton. A singing heart every time Julia told you he awaited you in the drawing room, weakened knees when he offered his hand to pull you onto the dance floor, an unavoidable smile throughout any of your conversations. You finally realized what all those ladies saw in the Viscount Bridgerton. 

The other part—the intelligent part that knew this was the one thing that could absolutely not happen—wanted nothing more than to ignore his every call. To stay silent during promenades, to refuse his dance offers, to stay shut in your room when he called on you. To be able to avoid him in every possible way because you could not encourage your feelings further.  

It was terrible. Awful. Horrendous. You were quite sure that you loved Anthony Bridgerton, and the one thing you were meant to do was not love Anthony Bridgerton. 

The more time you spent around him, the more you thought about him, the more you felt for him, and there was not a single way to avoid it because his courtship was the only thing keeping you above water. 

You really were doomed. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

You blinked as Eloise said your name, and you looked over at her. “I apologize. I was in my head.” 

“You’ve been in your head quite frequently as of late,” Eloise said, and she huffed a sigh as she flopped onto the couch next to you. “I can only assume my brother is to blame.” 

You felt your cheeks heat. If only she knew how true that was. 

“He is part of it,” you admitted, turning your head slightly so she could not see any visible embarrassment. “It may not be easy to be a Bridgerton, but it’s by no means easy to be courted by one, either.” 

“I can imagine,” she said with another sigh. “For how serious Anthony always is, he certainly is dramatic.” Eloise eyed you. “Would you like me to speak plainly?” 

Your brows creased slightly, though you still didn’t look at her. “Always.” 

“I honestly think he may be enjoying this,” she said. “Anthony has never been much for… anything, really. Anything besides duty. He’s pleasant around us for the most part, and I love him with all my heart, but he’s always so serious.” She shrugged. “It appears that you’ve brought out another side of him.” 

Your breath caught in your chest for a moment. You still could not bring yourself to meet her eyes. “Truly?” 

“Truly,” Eloise nodded. “When you end this, I believe he’ll come out the other side a better man. So I suppose I should thank you for this whole ruse.” 

A smile played on your lips for a moment, but it fell just as quickly. You’d always known it was going to end—the ruse was your idea in the first place—and yet you were the one fighting against her impossible feelings. You were a damn doomed fool. 

You had to fight the urge to hit your head against the back of the couch. You felt as if you were going insane, but you could not reveal the whirlwind inside your mind to anyone. 

“There is no need to thank me,” you finally said. “It’s been a pleasure.” 

“A pleasure,” Eloise said dryly. “Really?” 

You nodded, finally sitting up and looking at her. “Yes. Anthony was a bit of a nuisance at first, but…” you smiled just at the thought of him. “We’ve become friends after all this time. Quite close friends.” 

Eloise’s nose wrinkled, and then she sighed yet again. “I suppose it is a good thing if you two are getting along. As long as you will still trade barbs with me about him.” 

You chuckled. “Always.” 

You couldn’t tell her. You wouldn’t tell her, because there was no use in creating such a problem for no reason. 

You loved Anthony, you were sure of that by now, though you had not previously thought it at all possible. And none of it mattered, because by the end of the season, your courtship would be a distant memory. 

You and Eloise continued your idle chatter, but your heart was not in it. How could it be, when you could only think of Anthony? You could only think of Anthony, the one man you never thought you would want and now the one man you can never have. 

It was ridiculous. He turned you into a ridiculous woman and you would never forgive him for it. 

You’d always wondered how you would end your ruse when your mothers had grown so attached to the courtship, the idea of you as a Bridgerton. 

Your mothers were no longer the problem. 

-

The middle of the season came and went, your feelings for Anthony growing ever stronger—your disdain for those feelings grew alongside them. 

Your parents were working harder than ever as the peak of the season approached—your father spent most nights bent over documents and papers regarding the finances, pushing pennies so that you would be able to afford the frivolities of the ton and appearing on the arm of a Bridgerton. 

Your mother had a job of equal difficulty—she had to maintain the Worthing image and name. It had never been the best to begin with as one of the poorer families of the ton, but Anthony’s courtship had pushed you through the ranks. Your mother was determined to keep you there. 

The pairing between you and Anthony should have remained the same stagnant charade, but it was difficult to act the same as always with your feelings evolving ever so. It did not help that both your mother and Lady Bridgerton were convinced a proposal was to be just around the corner when nothing could be further from the truth. 

And it was not as if they were wrong for holding that belief. Were this a traditional courting, Anthony would likely be preparing to get down on one knee—instead, your promenades consisted of discussions on how best to end your situation. 

(“Perhaps you could have a meltdown,” Anthony had suggested once. “It would certainly not come as a surprise to the ton—they would merely see it as what has been coming all along.” 

“Your faith in me is truly astounding, Anthony,” you said dryly. “It is sure to be a mystery on how we did not work out.” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “I am only trying to work with you. Must I remind you that it was you that started this, all because you did not want to get married? This would simply be an extension—you’ve never wanted to marry a man before, what is one more to add to the list?” 

“Yes, but…” you shook your head and sighed. “I fear we may have performed our act too well. At this point, it feels as if any means of our splitting will hurt our mothers and cause a riot in the ton, no matter how we do it.” 

“I think you may be right,” Anthony said, and he frowned. “I do not know whether I want Hyacinth to find out you will not be her sister through Whistledown or through me—I know I could not handle the look on her face, but to let her discover it through gossip seems even worse.” 

You could not help a sly smile at that. “Are you telling me I have charmed your family even more than I had before?” 

He offered a smile of his own. “I believe I have charmed your family just as much, if not more. Your mother adores me more than ever.”) 

No, it did not help that your mother adored him, and it did not help that Hyacinth and Gregory adored you. Every second spent around Anthony and his family pushed you further to your doom, and what a lovely doom it was. 

Seeing Anthony dressed up at every ball was also not of aid, and you could not help but smile when your eyes met at the latest ball. You knew of your mother’s watchful eye over both of you, but you found you didn’t care when he offered his hand. 

“You look beautiful,” Anthony murmured so only you could hear it as he led you out to the dance floor. You took up your positions and started the waltz—you had Anthony to thank for the increase in your skill, for the amount of dancing you did these days made it impossible for your ability to remain stagnant. 

You chuckled a bit. “Thank you, Anthony, but nobody can hear us. You do not need to keep up appearances.” 

The smile remained on his lips for just a moment too long before he blinked and nodded. “You are correct. I suppose it is just becoming a habit.” 

Butterflies erupted in your chest, and in your flustered state, you fell out of the rhythm and missed your next step. If it hadn’t been for Anthony leading so well, you would’ve fallen. 

How could he just say those things? How could he just say those frustratingly charming things without blinking an eye, words that made you trip over your feet and spurned warmth in your core and drove you insane? 

Did Anthony even know what he did to you? 

“Are you alright?” he questioned, and for a moment all you were able to do was stare into his eyes. They were beautiful. 

“Yes,” you finally managed, clearing your throat as you glanced away for a moment. 

It is just becoming a habit, he said, words that near perfectly echoed your own situation.

Each time you slipped your arm around Anthony’s, each time he was a caller in your drawing room for an early morning—early mornings which you were becoming all the fonder of with each outing—each time he smiled at you in that way of his, each time you looked into those warm brown eyes, each time he was just the slightest bit too close and you were able to feel your heart speed up and your breath hitch. 

Being around Anthony Bridgerton was becoming a habit for you, you realized, a habit you did not want to let go of. 

You did not realize Anthony was speaking to you until he said your name again and you snapped out of your thoughts, staring at him for a moment before you nodded. 

“Apologies,” you covered up, “it seems I am very in my head tonight.” 

“It is alright,” he said, smiling softly. “I was merely asking if your outing with your parents the other night went well.” 

“Yes,” you breathed, “yes, it was quite pleasant.” 

Though you answered, you could still hardly focus. And it was all because of the man you were dancing with, because of the delicate yet sure grip he had on your hands, because of the sweetest eyes you’d ever known gazing at you with reassurance. 

You were horribly in love with Anthony Bridgerton, and there was nothing you could do about it. 

-

“…So,” Anthony said as the two of you trailed through the streets, “remind me what you have roped me into?”

“I have not roped you into anything,” you said. “I am taking you to a rally; one for the advancement of women. I believe it would do you some good to see what your myriad of sisters put up with because of men like you.” 

“Men like me?” he repeated, having the gall to sound slightly offended. 

“Yes, men like you,” you agreed. “Men who do not even question why they are so deserving of their position so high above us, and do not even think to change things because society solely benefits them.” 

“Do you ever get tired of your constant bitterness?” he asked dryly. 

“No,” you responded cheerfully, “I only get tired of you.” 

“Ah,” he said with a nod. “That is why you have not only decided to be my fake courtee for an entire season, but to willingly bring me along on one of your weekend escapades.” 

“I put up with you so I will not have to put up with those even more irritating,” you reminded him.

“And that is why you always smile at me with the strength of a thousand suns while we dance?” he asked. “Why you continue to promenade with me and indulge my conversational whims and accept me without complaint as a constant caller?” 

You shrugged, and you hoped the heat rushing to your cheeks was not visible. Perhaps he could read you better than you thought. “As I said, it is so I will not have to put up with those more irritating. I have come to appreciate you.” 

“Times like these, I wonder if we are truly faking it,” Anthony said. “We already bicker as much as a married couple — perhaps we have somehow skipped the engagement and the wedding and gone right into the arguments.” 

“I believe that is simply called friendship, Anthony.” 

He raised his eyebrows, a smile tugging at his lips as he said your name. “You see me as a friend?” 

“And now I regret saying it,” you laughed.  

“Oh, do not lie,” Anthony said wryly. “Why have you brought me here, if not to argue on the way?” 

“It is simply a learning experience for you,” you scoffed. “It is actually quite enriching, Anthony. You may want to take your leave now though, lest you end up learning something.” 

“You are truly hilarious,” he said, devoid of emotion. He glanced down at the basket you carried in your hands before looking back to you. “And what is in there?”

“Any goods I can spare,” you said. “I am one of the poorer ladies in the ton, but I am still more fortunate than many of the women that attend these rallies. They are often working mothers and sisters trying their best to support their families, but it is hardly ever enough. I do what I can to make it even the slightest bit easier for them.”

Anthony went silent, and when you glanced at him he had an odd look on his face, his gaze set on you.

“What?” you asked, and he offered the smallest smile.

“That is quite a gesture,” he finally said. “Most families in society tend to ignore anyone beneath them. They would not be caught dead in a place like this.”

“They are not beneath me,” you corrected. “They are not beneath any of us. None of them have chosen the lives they lead; wealth begets wealth, and poverty the same. It is a vicious cycle that hardly anyone is able to break out of. I see no reason why I should not use my privilege to make anyone’s life even the slightest bit easier.”

“Besides,” you said with a raise of your brow, “you are here with me, are you not?”

Anthony nodded after a moment. “I suppose you are rubbing off on me.”

You smiled. “I am glad to have gotten through to you on at least one thing. Helping others with your wealth is perhaps the best thing for you to pick up from me, I think.”

“You are quite good at ruining the moment, are you aware?”

“Oh,” you said with a cheeky smile, “I absolutely am.”

You soon made it to the opening where the rally was being held. Though some were underground in the metaphorical sense, this one was rather out in the open. It was in a darker corner of the city, so you supposed the organizers did not think they would be disturbed. 

You wandered around with Anthony for a bit as you emptied your basket to a variety of women and youths, and by the time the first speaker had begun, you had handed out everything you’d brought. 

You took Anthony’s hand and pulled him behind you as you moved through the crowd to get closer, and when you tried to let go of his hand, he wouldn’t let you. You smiled up at him, and it seemed as if he’d only realized what he’d done in that moment. 

“I do not trust this part of town,” he whispered to you. “It is for your protection.” 

“Of course,” you whispered back, though you could not hide your mirth as you turned back to the speaker. 

It was wonderful. She spoke of all sorts of things relating to women and the betterment of your sex, how they deserved a place in Parliament and a voice and respect for more than motherly duties, how— 

“This is unseemingly,” Anthony huffed. 

You frowned. “How?” 

“This is hardly a proper place for anyone.” His eyes darted around. 

“This is where I am to end up if I do not figure out a better way out of the ton,” you said. “This is how a majority of London lives.” 

“I am aware of that,” he muttered. “Do not think me so naive that I do not understand my privilege. I just…” Anthony shook his head and sighed. “No matter. How many of these have you been to?” 

“Five, I believe.” You frowned. “Six, actually. There was the time I told my parents I was ill and snuck out.” 

“It is a miracle you are still alive,” Anthony marveled. 

You shrugged. “I never said I was intelligent. Merely smart.” 

He laughed, genuine and full, and you found yourself smiling. 

And then there was yelling. 

Your brows creased again as you looked to the front, only to see a man. His burly and unkempt appearance weren’t the only off-putting things about him. He spat rhetoric against everything the rally stood for, and the look in his eye was chilling. 

You’d heard of this happening before, of men from the city who indulged their baser instincts and liked the world just the way it was now, invading rallies and meetings held by women just to create problems and spread fear.  

Some cries ran out around the crowd, and your head whirled around to see other men like the one yelling pushing through the sea of people, intimidating and snapping their way through. You went to take a step back, but Anthony was already ahead of you as his grip on your hand tightened. 

It appeared that this was one of those times. 

“Ah,” you said, beginning to back up alongside Anthony. “I forgot to mention one thing to you.” 

“And that is?” he asked, annoyance coloring his words. 

“This gathering is not exactly legal.” You winced as a pairing shouldered past you, but you held fast onto Anthony’s hand. “I’d say it’s quite illegal, actually. Which is why it can be interrupted in this fashion.” 

“Wonderful,” he breathed. “I’d say that it is time to take our leave. Would you agree?” 

“Yes,” you said, “I would.” 

The glint of a knife caught your eye even from afar, gripped in the hand of one of the men, and a lady’s scream pierced the air. 

And then full-on chaos broke out. 

-

Everything after that was mostly a blur. Something triggered inside of Anthony, clear in the wild look in his eye, and his only thought was seemingly to get you out unharmed. It worked for the most part, to his credit, though you didn’t get away completely unscathed. 

You also did not get away together. Somewhere in the middle, someone had barreled between the two of you and broken your link. Anthony had lost you in the rush, and he felt as if he was going insane. 

This may have been your idea, illegal as it was, but he was not going to allow anything to happen to you. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to you— he couldn’t. 

He shouted your name, once, twice, three times, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried his best to navigate through the insanity. This was no longer a rally, this was a riot, and with you missing Anthony truly feared the worst. His stomach twisted into knots just thinking about it.

He shouted your name, once, twice, three times, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried his best to navigate through the insanity. This was no longer a rally, this was a riot, and with you missing Anthony truly feared the worst. His stomach twisted into knots just thinking about it.

He’d just passed an alleyway when a hand darted out of nowhere and pulled him to the side; though his first instinct was to break away, the weight of his anxieties disappeared when he saw who had dragged him over.

Anthony said your name with complete relief, his shoulders dropping as the tension faded away. “I couldn’t find you, and I thought the worst— thank God you’re safe.” 

“Thank God you are safe,” you murmured, and he chuckled as he shook his head. Somehow, in this situation, you were worried about him. 

“I still cannot believe you are here,” Anthony huffed. He moved to the edge of the alleyway to watch, waiting for the chaos to clear out. “Is this truly what you are engaging in every weekend? Barbaric riots where its attendees are lucky to make it out alive?” 

“I promise,” you said through a shaky exhale, pressing your aching fingers to your chest as you held your good hand against your bleeding nose, “they are never like this.”

His eyes darted back over to you, and that was when he noticed the injury. “God, what happened to you?” 

You opened your mouth to diminish it, but Anthony moved over and began examining you for worse injuries. You let out a breathy laugh and shook your head. “I am fine, Anthony, trust me. Men in these parts believe in one vein of equality, at least, seeing as I was punched in the face.” 

His eyes widened and it only made you smile more. “Do not worry. I punched him back.” You held up your hand, bunching it into a fist. “I believe my knuckles will bruise something fierce later, though.” 

Anthony shook his head, another breathless laugh taking him. “You are truly something else.” 

“And I am fine,” you assured, though the slight strain of your voice said something different. Anthony did not notice, though, and he moved back to his spot on the edge watching for clearings.  

“You said you have been to six of these before,” Anthony said. “And they have never been like this?” 

“Never.” 

“Then I assume this riot was something special they planned just for me.”

“You jest, but you may not be far from the truth.” You chuckled but immediately winced. “You are bad luck, Anthony.”

“I am bad luck?“ He turned and fixed you with a pointed look. “You are the one who threw herself into the middle of a fight; it is fortunate you got away with so few injuries.” 

You huffed a laugh but a sharp pain once again shot through your chest, far more extreme than the last, and you barely managed to stifle your gasp of pain. You took your hand away from your nose and pressed it against your side, but all it caused was an even greater ripple of pain throughout your entire body. 

When you took your hand away, every part that had been against your dress was coated in a shimmering layer of blood, a small drop falling from your finger and splattering to the ground below. Your heart caught in your throat as you weakly pulled at the hem, crimson red seeping through the laceration in the fabric as a confirmation of the injury below. 

So it seemed you had not been lucky enough to get away with only a bloody nose and bruised knuckles. 

“...Anthony?” you managed weakly, your limbs growing heavy as your vision began to blur. “I… it…” 

Anthony’s head whipped around. His eyes were the last thing you saw, wide with fear and lips moving in silent panic as he lunged towards you. 

And then the world around you faded into darkness.

-

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator @louderfortheback 

bridgerton tags: @theonewithallthemilkshakes @rach2602 @milkiane @korol-lantsov @heyyitsreign

not so simple tags: @ifilwtmfc @readers-post @fangirling-galore @funkydinosaurs @baby-i-am-fireproof @mess-is-my-aesthetic @likeballet @mdkfh @brezzybfan @magical-spit @lafy-taffy @miss-celestial-being @mercurysrhapsody @evilsailorsenshi @mainstreambitchlife @aangsupremacy @chloepluto1306 @lostaudfound @panhoeofmanyfandoms @blhemmings @my-acrylic-heart

#anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fic #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #x reader #bridgerton imagine #sadie writes

[artificial-radiance]

oh i love the Path Through the Woods au omg!!! can you tell us about the voices? what are they like and how they are foils to the monsters and such

i cant wait to see all of the other monsters :DD

is the a princess version of the narrator too or is the story different?

(note: this ask was received earlier in March, and I have been working on answering it since -- ty for your patience <3)

For that last question, I imagine the Narrator being the same horrible old crow, though my writing style is certainly different from how he's portrayed (I love describing things way too much) so writing him has been a small bit of a struggle - I need to practice portraying him. As of finishing the list below, I've gotten more confident writing him as I've played him for friends. The story is very different, and he has taken matters into his own hands differently - wanting you to walk into your death through believing him.

For your first question, I'll keep that all under a read more! But for a generalized idea, the Voices here are based on the Shifting Mound's descriptions of the Vessels and how they were described as hearts.

Over the course of writing this, there have been a few renames. They'll be noted <3

While not a voice, "you"/the player are called the Runaway. In tandem with the Voice of the Stray, she is the chapter 1 Princess. What she can arm herself with is different per chapter, and there's implications her appearance changes as well.

The Voice of the Stray is your inverse - if you are armed, she is more passive, and if you are unarmed, she is colder. This is in reference to how the Princess in Ch 1 changes personality based on if you enter the basement with the blade or not.

She was previously called the Voice of the Princess, then the Voice of the Captive, and then the Voice of the Runaway before getting to this point.

The Voice of the Accused is based on the Prisoner. She lays out what she thinks directly and pointedly. She doesn't say more than she needs to, prefering to watch and think things through quietly.

The Voice of the Cutthroat is based on the Adversary. She thinks in directly actions and has the will needed to make you do things.

She was originally called the Voice of the Rival. I thought this was too on the nose and looked to change it, taking Cutthroat from the Voice of the Trapper.

The Voice of the Dove is based on the Damsel. She thinks the Warden means the best for them, and is entirely willing to trust him and do what he says. While she won't suggest violence herself, she can deliver with unflinching cheeriness.

The Voice of the Exalted is based on the Tower. She sees herself as powerful and in charge of the situation. She's calculating where Cutthroat is impatient, and belittles those she doesn't like.

She was originally named the Voice of the Divine, then Voice of the Mystic. The former was too on the nose for me, and the second a little out of place for her personality.

The Voice of the Faithful is based on the Witch. She isn't trusting of others, having faith in herself rather than others. She isn't shy of suggesting trickery and betrayal if the circumstance could benefit from it.

She was originally named the Voice of the Tested before changing it because it didn't feel or sound right.

The Voice of the Haunted is based on the Spectre. She's relaxed for the most part, and one of the more pleasant voices to be around. She's willing to trust anyone that extends a hand to help.

She was originally named the Voice of the Dreamer, and then the Voice of the Drifter.

The Voice of the Hoax is based on the Razor. She likes to lie and oppose most decisions made, though when she's called out on it she's quick to deny most accusations. She likes to have good fun at the expense of others.

She was originally named the Voice of the Snitch, then the Voice of the Sleeve. Her named was hanged because while "Sleeve" was unique, I didn't fully enjoy it.

The Voice of the Solace is based on the Nightmare. She's playful, but impatient, entirely willing to throw tantrums and be cruel when she doesn't get what she wants. She has a strong will to enforce on the body and the Construct.

She was originally named the Voice of the Gentle before I decided it wasn't fitting for her (though you could argue the Solace isn't either - it's more for irony I suppose).

The Voice of the Splintered is based on the Stranger. She's naive, and her mood is unpredictable. She can be dismissive, vitriolic, or fully passive based on whatever stimuli she's given.

She was originally named the Voice of the Resonant, but I didn't fully vibe with it, hence the late change.

The Voice of the Trapper is based on the Beast. [edit] She is pretty decent planner and can read other creatures like a book. She knows what she's doing so long as it involves the element of surprise.

She was originally named the Voice of the Cutthroat, which was later given to the current Cutthroat. I held off from naming her the Hunter/Huntress since it was too on the nose.

#ask #small-spark-of-light #stp au #slay the princess au #slay the princess #path through the woods au #clove's au: path through the woods #stp princess #stp the shifting mound #stp:pttw voices #stp beast #stp nightmare #stp razor #stp witch #stp prisoner #stp adversary #stp damsel #stp spectre #stp tower #stp:pttw runaway #stp:pttw stray #stp:pttw accused #stp:pttw cutthroat #stp:pttw dove #stp:pttw exalted #stp:pttw faithful #stp:pttw haunted #stp:pttw hoax #stp:pttw solace #stp:pttw splintered

[eyesteeth]

love the diner scene in episode 5 so much. on the surface it's hysterical, hayward just dumps this rant about his wife (soon to be ex-wife) onto carpenter, someone he fully believes to be involved in the deaths of five men, with barely any prompting. and carpenter cringes through the whole thing and it's so awkward to listen to. it's four minutes of an incredibly realistic rendition of the worst conversation possible.

and then later you learn that there is no ex-wife. hayward just said that shit off the cuff. and it's so fucking funny on a second listen. all that awkwardness, to a stranger, about something that didn't even happen.

when he mentions his wife again in episode 14, something's clearly off - his speech about the good man running, it feels more like him talking about himself than describing what someone said to him. then, when he says his wife knows he's at the party in episode 18/S2E3, we know he's been on his own for a while. finally, it comes out in episode 27/S2E12 that she was never real. and this knowledge completely recontextualizes the whole encounter in episode 5.

him talking about fear and apprehension, that mounting feeling, desperately wanting something to be over but not wanting to make it be over, feeling like you're giving more than you're taking, it's very clearly him ranting about his job and his associated insecurities. he goes into feeling like he's going to lose himself if he pulls away from this "relationship" or come out the other side worsened from the whole ordeal.

and then carpenter pipes in, and says that there's another option - he can destroy the other party. and that's where this scene really clicks and comes together, because the thoughts hayward is having about his job are the same thoughts carpenter is having about her faith.

she also doesn't want to be here, both in the sense of being in this town and being in this position. she's tired of gods and the problems they cause for her and everyone, and she's struggling with leaving. hayward and carpenter foil each other incredibly in this regard. they even have similar forces pushing them to make this choice in the first place - hayward got into the police because he didn't want to let his mother down, and carpenter got into the church because of the fear surrounding her brother's death. it's guilt and family for both of them.

then, in season two, we get to see them both existing outside of their respective "bad partners" - hayward abandoning his job and working with paige, and carpenter traveling alone to bury the body she's given. (the similarities diverge here - carpenter spends this time alone reflecting and ultimately decides she needs no higher force in her life, while hayward feels directionless without a higher authority and so goes all in on the new god - they both go in very different directions with the momentum they're given)

now, with season three six days away, they're both being pursued by that same "bad partner" from before - hayward was already on the run from the police and making a god isn't going to put him in any better graces, and carpenter has the forces of the river faith coming after her for a double-murder she didn't do. when their paths converge, which is very likely, maybe they'll foil each other again. only time will tell.

#tsv #the silt verses #yes im making another post. i need to exorcise the hyperfixation to a manageable level #i triple checked this one if it's also inaccurate i'm going to eat a small stone #analysis #sister carpenter #hayward

[mindstriker]

top five things i am currently insane about in borderlands as usual:

a) timothy lawrence and the way that he's so commonly misinterpreted. i want to see an in-depth exploration of all the less "funny cute anxious bean" or whatever aspects of his personality. i want to see the remnants of jack still lingering in his personality and the way this makes other people uncomfortable sometimes. i want to see the fact that he's a resilient mf who survived being a vault hunter. i want a genuine exploration of the relationship (platonic or romantic) that he could have with moxxi, where they both simultaneously explore the people that they are underneath the literal mask/corporate image of themselves that they present. i want to see the crimson raiders send him to atlas for a new hand because rhys fucking OWES them after they saved his ass, and i want to see him have a conversation with zer0, one of the people who killed jack. i also want to see him accidentally scare the shit out of rhys on multiple occasions. I WANT TO SEE IT ACKNOWLEDGED THAT HE'S TERRIBLE AT ACTING LIKE JACK ON PURPOSE, but when he's not intentionally doing it? jesus, it catches you off guard. sometimes the things he says as himself sound like something that would naturally come out of jack's mouth.

b) katagawa jr. can i ever decide entirely whether or not i wanted him to be reworked into a more competent, long-standing antagonist that would EVENTUALLY be killed by rhys personally in a grand display of him killing a foil of himself/ a representation of the worst person that he could have become in order to protect the new future he built for himself and all the people working for him- OR an eventually slowly redeemed character who survived the vault hunter's attack only to be disgraced by Maliwan and forced to gain a new perspective on the world much the same way Rhys was when he was initially ousted to being a janitor at Hyperion before going to Pandora? no. i cannot decide which of these paths i like better, but i really want either of them to have happened.

c) pure unadulterated rage about what they did to vaughn's character post tftbl. that's it. no elaboration needed.

d) the lack of content about maya meeting and knowing about other sirens and getting to connect with them over their experiences. i want to see more about her personal horror encountering angel in bl2- realizing that this can be a siren's fate sometimes if they're unlucky or defeated, weaponized and used for their powers as a tool. i want to see her meet lilith, and bond with her over the weight on their shoulders- being a vault hunter and a siren all at once and being looked up to as a legend, a myth, and a saviour all at once. also why the fuck did they kill her off in bl3 it's so fucking awful she could've been an awesome returning character and instead of just having her return to athenas they could have done a whole arc about her begrudgingly returning to her place of origin despite complicated feelings about it because they're in danger.

e) TANNNNNNNNNNNISSSSS. i love patricia tannis. number one tannis fan over here. i just want to see more of her interacting with everyone in general, actually. sirens and eridian history are her favourite, let me see her talking lilith and maya into silly experiments for her own personal gain. making friends, slowly, as she connects with the crimson raiders more closely than she thought she would, with other scientific minds. like hammerlock! they have different realms of study, but i like to think they'd get along. have her wander begrudgingly into moxxi's bar (unpleasantly loud and busy, but needs must) and ask her for a favour because she needs someone persuasive to convince the vault hunters to spare a bit of eridium for a machine she's got in the works. more her please

#borderlands #rambling #borderlands 3 #timothy lawrence #maya the siren #borderlands 2 #patricia tannis #katagawa jr #vaughn the money man #rhys tftbl #bunch of other mfs i wont list them all #tales from the borderlands #etc.

[pikahlua]

OK, I'm someone who's been gunning for the "Katsuki's villain foil is All For One" probably longer than anyone, been theorising this for over a year, and I have dozens of drafts abt it (I just turned on anon, my MHA account isn't my main anyway so...) and I never posted because it was getting too long. I think I had these since Bakugo died? If I had posted them with me saying "Bakugo will fight AFO at the end of this!", y'all would've called me crazy. Y'all could've called me a madlad, but noooo, it happened LOL

I think a few people have already noticed parallels, as there are some parallels in Yoichi and AFO's interactions Bakudeku in Ch 193. I noticed them too, and there were a few posts going around abt it, never realising the implications (since it would mean that AFO is the villain foil as he's the only one who had such similarities to Bakugo).

I mean chapter kept putting Yoichi and Midoriya together, obviously connecting the two. But where does that put AFO?

Bakudeku can be considered "siblings" since they knew each other for as long as they can remember. One was gifted and strong, while the other was quirkless. The gifted one telling the other that since they're quirkless, they can't achieve their dreams (Compare Ch 1 Bakugo to AFO's statement about Yoichi).

Yes, people are saying that AFO is terrible and Bakugo shouldn't be compared. But I think that's exactly what makes them foils. Horikoshi described Bakugo as the "light that would never surrenders to the dark", and AFO is the complete opposite, someone I would describe as "the darkness that never comes to the light".

They're the ultimate representation of "good vs evil", and that's why Horikoshi had pitted them against each other.

And AFO being Bakugo's foil makes sense as it goes in line with something Best Jeanist has said in the past. "What makes the difference between Heroes and Villains?" The villain foil theme actually started with Bakugo.

What makes AFO and Bakugo mirror each other? Look at how AFO looks down on the weak, calling them all "extras", the way he called Bakugo a "pebble in his path" the same way Bakugo did.

Rather than motivations and origins, it's through their behaviour especially towards others. AFO is more extreme, but he calls and views others that are "weaker" as "extras", he looked down on the person "closest" to him for his weakness. He once believed that "might makes right" and acts upon it. He view himself as "God". (Remember how Bakugo's hero name has "God" in it??? Hehe..)

And I feel that there would be more parallels between them once we get to see more of how AFO views Kudou, because he seems to be angered or even "threatened" by him in a similar sense to how Bakugo was to Midoriya. He is the extreme representation of Bakugo's past.

Katsuki means "victory over the self". Of course, the best way to finish your character arc is to beat up a character that represents your past LMAO

All through his arc, he had to see his weakness, and even through foils like Endeavor to face his mistakes. All For One is the final step.

Of course, for Bakugo to fight unwaveringly, he had to get his "rising" moment and also apologize to Midoriya. So that he can truly become the light that opposes the dark. To truly distinguish himself from the villain, like what Best Jeanist told him.

(Sorry if I got anything wrong, I was inactive around MHA for a while, so I could be misremembering, but hell yeahhh, this is what I've been waiting for lets gooooo!!!!)

I think you've got a lot of good stuff here, and yet... My apologies, anon, normally I wouldn't lead with this point I'm about to address, but I must address it first or else no one will read past this point and instead run to dogpile me in my askbox.

While I understand where you're coming from, it's just not tenable to argue the relationship between Izuku and Katsuki is akin to that of siblings.

Some people would make this argument from what may seem like a shipping standpoint, but I'm going to make it from a cultural one. At no point in the manga are Izuku and Katsuki ever referred to as nor behave as nor speak like they're family. There are important hierarchical and social expectations present in Japan for siblings that are different from what's expected of friends (note that even twins are still distinguished as the older and younger brother). Izuku and Katsuki treat each other as peers, social equals, NOT as a big brother-little brother dynamic. Their dynamic is best described as that of childhood friends. Childhood friends is an important trope in Japan, and one can't just gloss over it and pretend like siblings and childhood friends are equivalent or that they work the same as with western story dynamics. They're not and they don't.

And the social distance between Izuku and Katsuki is VITAL to the way their characters and relationship work. Izuku has to be unrelated to Katsuki--a "pebble in his path," some random extra--for Izuku's heart to shake Katsuki so badly, for the "meddling where you don't need to" theme to apply to Izuku rescuing Katsuki, for Izuku reaching out to be so offensive to Katsuki. So for reference, you can accurately describe this relationship parallel with Yoichi and AFO as "they knew each other since childhood," "they don't remember ever not knowing each other," "they have always been a part of each other's lives," etc. But I must stress the trope you're invoking here is childhood friends. It's okay, you don't NEED BakuDeku to be "like siblings" to make these parallels work. They grew up together, and that's sufficient.

Sorry to nitpick on that.

Anyways, I do think that there is something intentional on Horikoshi's part about Katsuki "Self-Victory" Bakugou facing off against All For One as if AFO is implied to be one of Katsuki's "selves" for him to defeat, particularly his old self he's already basically defeated in every sense except somehow fighting it out physically.

Can I tell you a secret though?

I'm not convinced MHA ends after Katsuki vs AFO and Izuku vs Tomura.

No, I don't mean like a falling action epilogue. I just mean...

Heroes Rising didn't end when Izuku and Katsuki sucker-punched Nine. It didn't end when Nine had been bested in fair combat. It ended after Nine employed a desperate gambit to win no matter the cost and became a giant purple butterfly rage monster.

What I'm saying is...I kinda think AFO will successfully transplant his quirk into Tomura or something.

#ask pika #anon ask #my hero academia manga spoilers #final arc spoilers #katsuki bakugou #all for one #sorry to use you as an opportunity to belabor the point anon #i needed to get this message out there for quite some time #<3 #my hero academia heroes rising

[agentc0rn]

Teal Mask: Kieran’s desire for strength - not just becoming strong as a trainer but also as a resilient individual in general. *LONG THREAD WARNING*

Just wanted to contribute further to the teal mask content and all that juicy stuff. As we all know, we all have unfortunately witnessed a poor boy’s down-spiral character arc. It is evident that Kieran wants to attain strength to become a stronger trainer and person as a whole. He outright states that he wants to become independent, capable, and reliable at some point. His motivation and source of support - ogerpon -  more so the legend version of ogerpon than the “real” ogerpon, was once a common innocent fixation that many of us probably had/have in our lives, that was then tragically turned to an unhealthy obsession. It became a poor coping mechanism and desperate means of proving himself that pushed him towards reckless methods and mannerisms.  

Parallels with Loyal Three

I mentioned in the comment section of one post that his desire for power parallels with Okidogi. Additionally, he shares similar sentiments with Fez and Munki. He wants to be “cool” like the ogre (achieve a cool status that of a hero, admired for their strength) and seeks knowledge on the ways to succeed like us - he wants to know how to become stronger -  “why can’t I be like you?”. This is shown through his tactics, team member swaps and appearance change at the end. 

Foils with other characters

I find it sad how as Ogerpon learns to open up, heal and receives support, Kieran does not have a proper, stable one since the start - his sister has supported him in some ways of course, but her attitude/actions likely has also contributed to his sense of inferiority. Thus, the combination of misunderstanding, cultural norms, strained familial relationships, miscommunication, and self inflicted misjudgments have pushed him further down the hole. It’s almost as if he is the foil of Nemona (yet also alike) in terms of how strength as a social arbiter determines one’s worth and outlook. Nemona became so strong but at a social cost; no one wants to compete or keep up with her and misreads her passion (likewise with Kieran and his interest in history). She just wants someone to battle with with all of their efforts and enjoy the battle the same way she does, which she does not mind losing. On the other hand, if you’re weak then you would likely get made fun of or ignored, which we see Kieran has internalized that idea through his accusations of us and Carmine laughing behind his back (perhaps this is a common concept that runs in blueberry academy? Competition and becoming the best are of utmost importance). Moreover, he is, in a way, a foil of Arven in ascribing to a legend and superstition - except Arven learns to embrace support after being alone for so long, heals and accepts korai/Mirai, while Kiki feels further isolated, loses grasp of who Ogerpon really is by going against her boundaries and runs away from opportunities of support. As for Penny, it is clear that they share a reclusive nature and willingness to not conform to, but to confront social standards. Penny takes self accountability for her actions, whereas for Kieran, while he does apologize at times and keeps his word - soon gets lost in a convoluted, distorted sense of right and wrong (him stealing the teal mask, and him not wanting to join the mask retrieval mission may seem selfish at first, but it could be that he didn’t want to be a burden as well as be seen sulking). He unfortunately (would) becomes the antagonist or better yet, the oni in our path.

Peach Symbolism

On another hand, kieran may be the peach boy in a sense but reverse. His actions and desire fulfilled the required conditions for the resurrection of the loyal three (desire for “revenge”) and thus indirectly leads them to endanger Ogerpon.  In one of my previous posts, I wrote a poem about how Kieran's dreams were sweet like peach, but then got crushed. And like certain fruits, it has seeds that contains some poison but not at a dangerous level (unless consumed at high amount ofc), which ties to the toxic chain and dokutaro that has been theorized to be external influences partially responsible for his behaviour.

Hero + heroic values

Finally, that one part when he says you’re like the hero of the story (that line goes hard and breaks the fourth wall, it’s been mentioned a lot in visual works on pixiv and social discourses), is a dealbreaker of his wish to keep his new friendship. Despite the portrayal of him hating the player (through memes which I do laugh at, and artworks/ discussions which I agree while sad about it) I think he is mad at us for sure, but not spiteful. Or maybe slightly. I think above all, he is mad at himself;  he constantly faces inner turmoil  to overcoming his helplessness, insecurity, and the process of revising his dreams and outgrowing his old ones. He had to forfeit his one childhood dream and now recognizes that he has to change in some way (albeit a bit extreme). In an ironic way, he would likely become his idealized version of strength, like "his" ogerpon - a strong “oni”- aka champion of bb academy. But again, while physical strength is a quality emphasized many times, Kieran wants to grow mentally strong to endure losses and humiliations both as a trainer and individual (ex. he is told down by his sister as seen in the beginning). He wants to be appreciated and not looked down as someone who is meek, weak and cowardly, which he tries so hard to build himself up on the virtues of a hero. He values honesty and a fair fight and tries to fulfill them to "earn" respect from people + ogerpon as a trainer. And maybe, that is when he feels that he is equal on par with you, and that he can be considered good enough to be our friend.

I really feel a lot for Kieran, because I do see myself in him (not in an obsessive way though) - hated losing, shy, hyerpfixations… I see his good traits and flaws - he is curious, sensitive, empathetic, has a critical mind of mainstream narratives but is also insecure and stubborn. I see too much simplistic takes on them (Kieran is narcissistic victim, Carmen is abusive,etc), like I get some aspects of the ideas, but saying that in a deterministic way does not define the character at all…

#I love discussions of this character #Flawed and deeply human #rival kieran #kieran pokemon #pokemon kieran #pokemon sv #pokemon scarlet and violet #the teal mask #the indigo disk #ac rambles #pokemon sv dlc #pokemon dlc #this recurring theme of become who you want to be/what you wish to get is just so interesting #Penny says this when she terrastilizes #and the parallels with Kieran and the Loyal Three… #thanks for coming to my Ted talk

[fieldsofbran87]

Okay post number 2 I’ll actually explain myself.

Every time I think about Impa I go bonkers but ESPECIALLY when I think about Impa and Ganondorf/Demise. These two are having a full on SAGA off screen and Nintendo is just too afraid of the raw energy their dynamic would bring. They would steal the show if let loose. Zelda and Link’s soulmate bond would pale in comparison to their absolutely fucked up 8D chess eternal rivalry. They’ve been playing the “too different to ever be friends, too similar to hate each other” game for centuries and it’s high time we addressed it lmao

Despite having about one scene of on-screen interaction and no dialogue together, Impa and Ganondorf are pretty clearly set up to be narrative foils. Impa is the servant of the goddess, the protector of Zelda, and guide to Link. Ganondorf is the rebel, the Demon King, and the opponent of the Princess and the Hero. Impa is defined by her selflessness, time and again devoting her life to serving Hylia and the Royal Family, even at a price for herself. Ganondorf, in contrast, is characteristically selfish; seeking to fulfill his own goals at the expense of others.

The Sheikah and the Gerudo are foils too. Both suffer the subjugation of the Royal Family, and both are the only other two human races besides Hylians. However, the Sheikah for the most part conform to their roles, serving the Royal Family, (therefore labeled as “good” by the Hylian narrative), while the Gerudo actively resist that regime (and are hence labeled as “bad”).

(The Yiga Clan is also a very curious facet of this issue, but that’s a whole other can of worms I don’t really feel equipped to discuss right now.)

Impa and Ganondorf are also tied together through their game appearances. Impa does not appear in a game without Ganon, and while Ganondorf sometimes appears without Impa, two of those occasions are Wind Waker and Twilight Princess. The same man as OOT, who has already met her. (FSA idk what’s going on there lmao. She wanted a break and that’s valid.) Timeline wise, they also return together after SS, both appearing in OOT after not being present during Minish Cap or FS. Intentionally or not, if one of them is there, the other will be too.

Impa and Ganondorf are undoubtedly paired together in the cycle, although less explicitly than Zelda and Link. They balance out the four, with Link and Zelda being destined always to find each other and work together, whereas Ganondorf and Impa are destined always to work against each other. Ganon attacks the kingdom, and Impa facilitates the resistance.

For all their differences, Impa and Ganondorf often operate in very similar ways. Throughout many of the games, they’re both working behind the scenes; nudging the heroes or their minions in the direction they want like chess pieces on a board. Ganondorf is more explicit in this (ex: Zant, Vaati, etc) but it’s important to remember that Impa is more than a passive side character. In Skyward Sword, she is directing Zelda down the path that leads to pretty much every major event in the game, and in Ocarina of Time, she raised Sheik and almost certainly sent him out to find Link. (Honestly, as much as Zelda is Hylia-incarnate, Impa is really the one pushing the Goddess’s agenda.) From these roles as orchestrators, they share a level a power over the narrative that the other characters don’t possess. Power that exists to contradict the other.

There’s also the scene in OOT where Impa escapes with young Zelda, pursued by Ganondorf, and it’s entirely possible they duked it out before the drawbridge bit. If so, then Impa’s escape implies a level of combat/magical power that is reasonably comparable to Ganondorf’s. I think it’s reasonable to say that Ganondorf likely outweighs Impa in raw strength, but she holds her ground surprisingly well. Ex: surviving the Calamity, escaping the castle in the OG game, also probably surviving the initial fight with Demise as Hylia’s guardian.

The icing on the cake to all of this is that when developing the lore, Impa was originally supposed to be a bearer of the Triforce with Link and Zelda. I checked the Hyrule Historia after seeing a post about Impa initially wielding Power and it’s true. She was originally supposed to be a guardian alongside Link and Zelda, not Ganon. And I just… oh my gosh the implications of that.

Looking at Impa through the lens of not necessarily someone who was destined to wield Power in canon, but someone who conceivably could is so fascinating. It makes her connection to Ganondorf all the more potent, not just as foils, but as two people who could just as easily be each other as oppose each other. In Ocarina of Time, for example, it’s not hard to picture an Impa who took a similar path as Ganondorf. Her people have been brought to the brink of near extinction, mostly thanks to the Royal Family. It’s entirely conceivable that she might find herself drawn to the Triforce just as much as Ganon was, seeking not coveted wind, but the undoing of so many lost lives.

All of this just sets the ground work for an absolutely fascinating relationship, and it drives me nuts that the games never explore it. Impa and Ganondorf both share a great deal of ambiguity regarding their intentions, motives, and overall feelings, and focusing on the two of them would open the doors to aspects of their character we haven’t seen. Being non-Hylian, older, and typically more world weary than Link and Zelda, they have a perspective on the cycle that is intriguing, and almost certainly not as positive. I think that would be neat to see.

Demise and Impa also have some interesting potential, especially considering how much time they spent in proximity. Like she spent centuries guarding the Imprisoned, as well as the sword he was sealed in. Did they ever speak? Did she know him from before he was sealed? Did he respect her skill and power the way he respected Link’s? There’s so many brain worms there.

Anyway, I have so many more thoughts on these two but honestly they’re better expressed via creative writing lmao. I can’t even begin to describe the absolutely insanity that their interactions would be. They’re like mortal enemies and begrudging friends and bitter exes and strangers in the same sad situation and hot messes all at once.

#my post

[reachexceedinggrasp]

Danny 'I don't do weird' Pink frustrates me as a character, because I'm honestly not sure whether he was supposed to have an arc or not.

His primary role is as a foil for Clara's arc and, in aid of that, as a mirror to the Doctor. A solider with survivor's guilt and a man of action who can't stand by when people need help etc., in some ways he and the Doctor have a lot in common, but he's also a very grounded and circumspect personality versus the Doctor's being fantastical and adventurous. Danny isn't curious and doesn't want to pursue new things or experiences, instead he wants to be fully present with and grateful for what he already has. The Doctor is incorrigibly curious and always interested in new things.

Danny is someone who desires nothing more than an ordinary life, and looks for beauty and satisfaction in the normal things and people around him. He wants his world to be small and quiet, he values the mundane things others might take for granted. He's normal, patient, dependable, simple, honest, etc. His reaction to trauma hasn't been to disavow the things which lead him to that event, or to seek out stimulation to avoid thinking about it, it's to be thoughtful and cautious and somewhat rigid so he can always apply the mindset and skills he retained from before he was traumatised.

He's very firm and unbending in his worldview and in his self-image. He doesn't seem to ever reassess people once he's decided what he thinks of them. He's not unreasonable or unwilling to compromise, he is in fact maybe too reasonable, but he is implastic. He's extremely even-tempered except for around his identity as a soldier, which he's prickly about, but still pretty quick to let it go as long as he's not being deliberately antagonised.

So anyway Danny represents this other path, and this opposite response to the horror of war and making a catastrophic mistake, but he never learns, he never grows and he and Clara are never much on the same wavelength about anything. He's supposed to be stability, the things she 'should' want, the 'person she's supposed to like', the safe choice, the presentable life which Clara feels like she has to have. He's orderly and ordinary and that's what she wants from him. She has to control her image, her future, and her options.

And their simple relationship, once it exists, functions well as the contrast to her complicated and tumultuous relationship with the Doctor while the companion power dynamic is being dismantled and rebuilt so they can be emotional equals. But like, the set up is confusingly executed.

Listen- they have zero chemistry, they have nothing to talk about and have to resort to talking about work, every conversation goes instantly off the rails, they rub each other the wrong way, there is never any reason for them to keep reconciling and trying again to connect. Like. You are not hitting it off! and keep offending each other bc you're not compatible! Quit!!

Clara is forcing it, that makes complete sense with what she's going through, she's trying to take control of her life and her emotions, trying to prove to herself she's not pining for the Doctor and at the mercy of his whims for her life to be full and complete. She doesn't want to need him or to be dependant on him. She doesn't want to be the heartbroken sadsack whom he abandoned at Christmas or who will take whatever scraps he'll throw her. She wants to control his position in her life and control how she feels about him. Hence her assigning him a specific day and confining their adventures on her own terms. She's trying to keep the Doctor compartmentalised. Having an Appropriate Human Relationship means she's successfully put the Doctor in his box (lol) and neutralised the chaotic power of her feelings for him. I mean, obviously not, but that's what she tells herself.

But what is Danny doing? Why does he keep pursuing this when it's so clearly not a good match?

Again in Listen, and much more so The Caretaker, Danny illustrates that he does not know who Clara is, he's wildly wrong about her and what she's like, and he's very high handed about it as well. He's convinced that the Doctor is taking advantage of her, that the Doctor is domineering in their relationship, that she is not a person who wants to be put into challenging or dangerous positions, that the Doctor is pushing her to takes risks and become a leader where that's not her nature. None of this is true. Clara was always a decisive, assertive, strongly driven person who seeks out new experiences and naturally assumes a leadership role any time that's necessary; she relishes being challenged and facing the unknown. Her blow up with the Doctor wasn't about him 'pushing her too far', it was about him failing to support her when she needed him and condescending to her as a human rather than treating her with the intimacy and equity their bond and history together demands. It's personal and it's about their emotional relationship. It's not about making hard choices, it's about having to make hard choices without her partner being honest with and emotionally available to her.

Clara was always an adventurous person, willing to be spontaneous as long as it's on her terms, and excited by the prospect of authority and responsibility. The danger and challenge isn't an unfortunate side effect or a risk she has to take to see amazing sights, it's part of the appeal. She lied to Danny by omission when she said she went off in the box to 'see wonders', not just because the real reason is that she's in love with Doctor, but also because she doesn't just want to be a tourist. She wants to get involved and save people, she wants things to sometimes go pear shaped. She enjoys and craves that part of it too.

Danny is also wildly wrong about the Doctor, but this is understandable and would be fine except that he's never corrected? He never learns better? What's the point?

In Death in Heaven Danny goes out still wrong about the Doctor, still condemning him cruelly and unfairly while knowing nothing about him. He had a point with his original rant, there was actual insight there, but it's buried in assumptions and bitterness and then Danny keeps tripling down on the assumption. The one which doesn't understand that the very thing he's shitting on the Doctor for (being willing to lead and make hard choices which must be made in order to save people) is something the Doctor has in common with Clara. And always has. The Doctor didn't change her or push her into that, that's who she's always been.

What is the point of Danny calling him a blood-soaked general and mocking him, calling him an officer as a pejorative again, and again because the Doctor is trying to save the planet. Like, memory check, that's what Danny is mad about. The Doctor doing everything in his power to save literal billions of lives. Doing it for no reason, out of altruism. Doing it while always trying very hard not to fight or kill anyone.

I don't understand how we're meant to find Danny sympathetic in that moment, because he comes off like a complete dickhead. And it's all the more frustrating because in the intervening episodes Danny has been eminently reasonable. As I've discussed before, we're exhaustively shown that Danny is 100% okay with what Clara claims is going on, that he doesn't want to get in the way of her friendship with the Doctor, that if it really were only the relationship she's pretending it is, there would be no conflict. He's the one who encourages her to make up with him after Kill the Moon! He tells her to go on travelling and it's fine!

Even when he discovers she's been lying to him and cavorting with the Doctor behind his back (again despite him telling her it was fine!), he's calm and repeats for the millionth time that all he wants from her is honesty. The truth. Which is the one thing she can't give him because Clara knows their relationship is built on the lie. The truth is, as Moffatt said, that Danny never stood a chance. There is a conflict between the two relationships and she's always going to choose the Doctor.

And that does come out, she gives the whole speech to Danny, not knowing it's him, finally being honest. And he seems unsurprised by it, which makes sense because on some level he definitely always knew ('do you love him?' 'no' 'really sick of the lies'), but then nothing comes of it. Clara just soldiers on and he allows her to pretend. He goes off on the Doctor, but not in a way he actually deserves at all, and just sweeps her confession under the carpet. Letting her get away with it again. True to form, I guess! he always did. But shouldn't we make progress?

And it's like... I hate that he dies on that note. It feels like he dies in denial. I guess you could argue it contributes to his decision to not come back, but that feels like a disservice to the character. Saving the kid is important to Danny, it allows him to atone but he didn't need to change or grow to accomplish that and it doesn't provide closure to his actual role in the narrative, which was as Clara's foil. Clara is off the hook, free to go on lying to herself about their relationship. It's not addressed in Last Christmas, either, it's only hinted at.

#clara oswald #whouffaldi #dw #twelfth doctor #dw meta #I feel a constant need to remind people that the first thing Danny asks after Clara explains who the Doctor is #is 'do you love him?' #it's that transparent #and he asks already knowing the answer and immediately calling bullshit when she denies it #and apparently accepts this as not a threat to him on the basis of the Doctor being an untouchable alien incapable of loving her back #like as if she had a crush on a dragon or the Great Wall of China #I can't tell if that speaks to his lack of self worth or if it's just really patronising #I appreciate In the Forests of the Night so much for the scene where he finally realises he should be jealous #but then he's just Extremely Reasonable about it again #he has total faith in his idea of who Clara is- utter conviction #and it's completely misplaced #I feel owed the psychological fallout from this is all I'm saying #calling this meta is being very generous bc did I even say anything #but whatever it's a bunch of words I'll put it in the box with the other words #I've realised 95% of my whouffaldi meta is in tags on gifsets so

[wc-confessions]

Longtail is my favorite character. I love his character arc, how he acts as a narrative foil to Firestar, and how he starts out as a jerkass but grows to have a backbone, shows himself to be a loyal warrior with a heart of gold where it counts, rejects Tigerstar when lines in the sand have been crossed despite how much he once looked up to him, and eventually grows to be very loyal to Firestar. I wish people talked more about the scene where he saves Fire when Tiger tries to drown him even though they’re not at all on friendly terms yet. Also his mentor-apprentice relationship with Swiftpaw tears me apart but I live for all the fan content that shows their bond and how much regret he has to live with after Swiftpaw’s death.

To this day I have so many gripes with what happened to my boy post-TPB.

If there is a non-death equivalent of TV Tropes’ “Too Cool To Live,” Longtail is basically that. He had to be written out because if he weren’t forcibly removed from the action, then he would be the obvious choice to become deputy during Greystripe’s absence in TNP (and arguably should have been chosen over Greystripe in the first place; I do like Grey but he was not particularly loyal nor responsible in his youth). Longtail was still relatively young, healthy and fit, loyal, experienced, passionate. You cannot convince me that he wasn’t dealt a career-ending injury solely because the plot demanded Brambeclaw become deputy by the end of TNP.

I don’t think Longstar would have ever been realistic to expect because he’s not a central enough character and not related to Fire/Tiger, and because he would have been fairly old for a clan cat by the time of Firestar’s death, but maybe he could have held out as deputy till the end of TNP or even early PO3 and been given a cooler and more memorable death than what he got. But more on that later.

We all know how badly this series shafts its disabled characters. Maybe this is trivial to some, but I really hate the retcon about his blindness. When his vision started failing of natural causes, it was still frustrating for the reasons above but it at least seemed like he made a voluntary choice to retire early. He maintained a degree of agency, and he made his own decision under the circumstances rather than having it taken from him by the narrative. Having him get blinded by a rabbit of all things just feels like a cheap shot to move the plot along. If he were going to have a freak accident, at least make it less stupid than an experienced warrior getting his eyes scratched out by a prey animal.

Not that any of them are handled *well* by any means, but we have roughly this same character arc with so many other characters who are given more depth in coming to terms with a permanent disability or disfigurement and having it alter the course of their lives (Cinderpelt, Brightheart, later on Briarlight…) that we didn’t need this one to happen to prove any kind of point or to say something too much different than any of those other instances.

The silver lining of Longtail’s injury is that it allows us to see more of his friendship with Mousefur than we would have gotten if either of them had died younger, and/or if they had faded to being background characters in the ever-growing ThunderClan roster. I really adore their dynamic. I headcanon them as aroace besties (iirc though this is basically canon for at least Mousefur). I find it so lovely and refreshing that a m/f pair of characters, and ones who are mostly very likable at that, can have a platonic relationship with so much care for each other without it eventually going down the marriage-and-children path that most m/f relationships eventually do in this series.

However.

Longtail’s death, and Mousefur’s role in it, are possibly even more frustrating and narratively awful than even the accident that caused his blindness.

Having him go out in such a cheap and easily preventable way felt like such a fucking slap in the face to these beloved characters who have been around from the very beginning of the series. Longtail had his whole life redefined and turned upside down by one random, frustrating freak accident involving prey and he ultimately lost his life to another one. Mousefur’s character was mishandled so grossly here, and a cat who is usually pretty sensible and grounded lost her best friend because she couldn’t let one (1) mouse go in a moment of what I have to assume is senility.

I am at least glad the two got a proper send-off in the Great Battle, with them getting to reunite on-screen and his spirit guiding her to Starclan after she fell in battle. It doesn’t quite make up for everything else given that Longtail had so much unused potential while alive, but it all would have been so, so much more upsetting if they weren’t given at least that much to close their chapters.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk about Longtail. He is so dear to my heart and deserved so much better than most of what he got.

.

#text #anonymous #confession #warrior cats

[margle]

the bowling episode & cat in the wall meta (deetress)

I think bowling is a turning point for dee. we got an insight into her mind and how significantly dennis affects her. importantly, she managed to defeat him. but rather than her victory being centred, as it previously would be, on her relationship with the gang, when she turns around, they arent there. she is unable to define her victory by their response. obviously this is painful for her, but it also demonstrates that she can now win without the gang's support. only the waitress was still there for her. the waitress, imo, represents a new path for dee. not away from the gang, because obviously that will never happen, but someone to rely on. her equivalent to mac and dennis or charlie and frank.

in mac and dennis break up, dee is shown to be the only member of the gang without someone to rely on. and so the episode about 'twosomes' and frienship ends with her alone, stuck in the wall. I think dee has been 'stuck in the wall' for a long, long time. obviously she is friends with the gang. but, charlie for example, can take being badly treated by mac for an episode and be fine because he has frank to rely on. even though mac and dennis have a more rocky relationship, they have never permanently left each other. in comparison, dee is badly treated by them but has no one to back her up. this must hurt for her because dennis is her twin, the one person who should be always on her side. and he is, in a way, but she must also battle against him. this season expanded upon her and frank's relationship, but he will always prefer charlie to her - the only one he thinks of as his child.

therefore dee is stuck in an odd group. she is 'stuck in the wall'. I think the waitress could be the only one to save her and get her out of the wall. the waitress, despite calling her ugly, stood up for dee against dennis. she chose dee against the man she once would do anything for. in that moment, dee had someone to rely on. the waitress also, similarly to the ireland episodes, represented her foil. she effortlessly stood up to dennis, whereas dee couldn't. she bested him physically (he literally broke his hand, numbers dont count) whereas dee couldn't. the waitress, perhaps, represents what dee needs most.

the reason they can start a new relationship as a (potential) 'twosome' is because the episode also marks a turning point for the waitress. the shift of her character from charlie's love interest/victim to dee's foil started in the ireland episodes. she manages to get the acting gig, pulls dee out of the bog and then sinks in her place, essentially unwillingly sacrificing herself for dee. their relationship was still harmful in the ireland episodes - they were taking from each other. but their mutuality was imo cemented in the bowling episode.

charlie is intentionally written as distracted and uninterested during his matches with the waitress. he talks to her casually, bothers her a bit but benignly, and runs off as soon as he can in order to do something else off screen. he now has his own life, off screen, away from her. in the same way she always had her own life separate from him. they are finally equal. I think this shows how the waitress isnt a significant part of charlie's life anymore.

on a meta level, the waitress is present in the episode because of her plot with dee, not because of a plot point with charlie. she is also willingly there and organised it herself, rather than being stalked or kidnapped or randomly showing up in ireland as if her life centres around the gang (which we know is not true). more importantly, if the gang hadnt intervened, dee would have spent time with the waitress without them. they have carved a space away from the gang together (even though dee was pushy about it). their relationship doesn't only exist within the context of charlie anymore.

the waitress has flourished with this change. she doesnt drink throughout the episode, has the funds to organise a bowling team, has friends, is making bowling shirts and is clearly working out (the kick). she is miles apart from where she was during charlie and dee find love.

bowling is proof that the waitress doesnt have to be stuck in her cycle of sobriety and addiction. she has successfully severed herself from charlie. charlie, along with her drinking, was a product of the stagnancy present in all sitcoms. no matter what happened in an episode, he would always keep stalking her and she would always start drinking again. but iasip has proved that its characters can transform (mfhp). and so I think her friendship with dee could be proof of a new direction for her. similarly, dee has been stagnant and 'stuck in the wall' since the show's beginning. she hasn't had anyone to pull her out. but the waitress, by standing up for her against dennis, is proof that this can change for her. dee can look outside of the gang, and have someone to rely on.

they can free each other.

#iasip #iasip analysis #dee reynolds #dee reynolds meta #the cat in the wall #Idk if anyone has done cat in the wall meta for dee #but she was literally the one stuck in the wall at the end!! #deetress #the gang goes bowling #the waitress #I have so many thoughts about this so please please respond if you have anything to say #sunnyblr #always sunny

[eosofspades]

no bc you’re SO right that kai is WAY weaker as a villain than tai lung or shen (shen especially, bc imo he’s the best villain of the trilogy) and i’d love to hear your thoughts on why <3

100% agree shen is my FAVORITE villain of the trilogy and possibly one of my favorite villains of all time. and tai lung is an incredibly close second! however, i really didn't care for kai.

the biggest thing about kai for me is that, as a villain, he is way weaker than the other two because he is extremely lacking in a personal connection to po, and also much weaker when considering how his character reflects the themes and narrative of the movie as a whole.

tai lung, as a villain, worked so well because he was obsessed with the concept of being the dragon warrior, and the supposed "power" that would come with that. the lesson of kfp1, though, was that there WAS no real magical power given by the scroll - there is no secret ingredient! it's just you! it was never about the scroll; it was about choosing to be good and do good for the sake of being good, not because you wanted power for it. tai lung couldn't accept this, which is why he made a fantastic villain for this one, thematically. (and ALSO a fantastic foil to po, who is so humble and doesn't NEED power, he's just passionate about kung fu and wants to have a good time with his friends.)

lord shen as a villain who reflects the themes of the story, though, takes this to the absolute HIGHEST level. the entire story of kfp2 pivots around po's struggle to reconcile his origins with who he is now, and both of those things are directly related to shen - he leads the massacre that ends up getting po sent away, which sets him on the journey to BECOME the dragon warrior, and po's destiny was always going to be to defeat him. both then and now, the course of po's life is being shaped by shen. shen is also a fantastic foil to po in the same way that tai lung was - shen cannot let go of the past, he clings to his anger and his fear; while po is able to accept what happened, accept that it is part of who he is but not what defines him, and is able to find healing and peace.

kai, by comparison........ has almost nothing to do with po. kai actually has NO personal connection to po! his evil scheme is related to the pandas, but absolutely nothing to do with po, specifically. tai lung had no shared past with po the way lord shen did, but he still had personal and specific reasons to hate po because po was getting the title and role that he so desperately wanted. but kai's only beef is with oogway! he didn't even seem to know that po existed until oogway says "it was never my destiny to stop you - i have set another on that path." and kai just says "then i will find him, and take his chi as well." his motives are also much weaker than the other two's - who both wanted power, yes, but tai lung was also deeply desperate to make shifu proud, to live up to the legend that he had been raised to believe he would become, and part of this was shifu's fault! that's extremely interesting and tragic!! and shen was motivated by fear - fear of his prophecized defeat, of the inescapability of his fate - and by grief over his (perceived) inability to make his parents proud, or get them to love him. kai, by contrast, was..... mad that oogway wasn't okay with letting him become a magical chi-stealing warlord??

kai also doesn't tie in with the themes or po's arc in this movie. in terms of other characters, po's arc in this one revolves way more around his fathers - trying to handle his new responsibilities of being the teacher to the five, trying to figure out how to balance the two different identities he has as the son of these two different fathers, but the only connection he has to kai is that he needs to be a master of chi to defeat him, which he can only learn how to be from the pandas, which incidentally happen to be his family. (and the fact that at the end, everyone is doing chi makes it seem like him being a panda or not might not have even been that relevant to begin with!) and kai's defeat is also sort of weak - he's defeated by the "too much power" trope, but nothing else in this story was about being power-hungry or the dangers of it. it wasn't something any of the pandas struggled with, hunger for power was NEVER a part of po's journey, and at least in kfp1 tai lung's desire for the dragon scroll was about more than just power (he wanted to make shifu proud), but also, because the entire theme of that story was that you didn't NEED power to be the dragon warrior. kfp3's narrative isn't ABOUT power; it's about identity and culture and balancing different aspects of your life to find your truest self. kai's character has nothing to say about ANY of this, he doesn't struggle with or care about any of these things - he is JUST power-hungry.

he also lacks that character foil aspect the other two had. the ability to take chi is never even presented as an option to po. what MIGHT have been interesting would have been if the only way to defeat kai was to take HIS chi - something a master of it would be able to do! - and po was forced into the dilemma of having to choose between risking going down the same path as kai for the sake of protecting his loved ones, or the risk of endangering them even more by refusing to. if the conflict had been about the good vs evil uses of chi powers, then that would have made kai a foil to po as well. but as it is now, kai has nothing to do with po, personally.

basically what it boils down to is that kai, as a villain, is serviceable, but when held up in contrast to the previous two, it becomes very obvious how much weaker he is narratively. his motivations are much shallower than the others', his connection to po is tangential at best, and as an antagonist, he doesn't have anything to say about the themes or messaging of the story OR the protagonist's arc.

#i said 'this one is gonna be a way shorter rant' and then promptly made myself eat those fucking words #WHY IS THIS SO LONGGGG FHGHSHFHSGHSDSGH #well. kung fu panda rant be upon ye #i had no idea how many thoughts i had about this until i started writing fhjfdgfdjgk #mine #long post #kung fu panda #kung fu panda 3 #kfp #kfp3 #kfp 3 #rory rambles about movies #analysis

[redgoldsparks]

I've never won National Novel Writing Month, but I am participating for my 7th time (not consecutively) this year. In the past I've always enjoyed receiving the Pep Talks from published authors, which are essentially like letters of encouragement to all of the writers trying to pour out the first draft of a novel in a month. A few of the ones I read, especially in my first year of doing NaNo, really stuck with me so I was very delighted to be asked to contribute one this year. You can read my Pep Talk here on the NaNo site but I will also post the full text below the cut. And to anyone doing NaNo this year-- good luck and keep writing!

instagram / patreon / portfolio / etsy / my book / redbubble

I wanted to be a writer long before I knew I had anything to say. 

I had a childhood immersed in stories. My parents took me to the local library every week, where I checked out stacks of fantasy novels. I would pick up any book with a dragon, elf, sword, castle, wizard, or spaceship on the cover and my heroes were the authors and illustrators of these magical worlds. 

At some point I started to wonder about these writers. Who were they? What were their lives like? I began to pay more attention to author’s notes and was astonished to discover that many authors I loved mentioned each other in their acknowledgements. In The Ladies of Grace Adieu, Susanna Clarke thanked Neil Gaimen, Terri Windling, Ellen Datlow, and Charles Vess. In Stardust, Gaimen thanked Clarke in return, and also Diana Wynne Jones. Ursula K Le Guin and Robin Hobb wrote blurbs for Patrick Rothfuss’ Name of the Wind. In Finder, Emma Bull thanked Terri Windling, Steven Brust, and her husband, Will Shetterly. Tamora Pierce, George RR Martin, Peter S Beagle and Kelly Link all blurbed books by Ellen Kushner, who thanked more people than I have space to name. 

Holy shit, I realized. All of these authors know each other! They’re friends! This was followed by a second thought: If I want to meet them, and especially if I want to be friends with them, maybe I should publish a fantasy novel myself. 

That realization gave me a new goal, but no specific pointers on how to pursue it. I started out as many young authors do: I began writing long fantasy narratives with orphaned protagonists, extremely derivative of the fantasy I’d read as a teen. During multiple successive NaNoWriMos I chipped away at a YA novel about a boy and a dragon. I started drawing a webcomic about a thief who tried to rob a monastery only to be foiled by a witch with the same plan. These stories had characters, settings, and some plot but what they didn’t have was themes. They didn’t ask any questions about what it means to be human, and they didn’t touch on any of the big concerns I was wrestling with in my personal life: gender, sexuality, and identity. 

It took the rather painful experience of a literary agent telling me my fantasy work was unpublishable before I set my early stories aside, stepped back, and changed the direction of my writing towards exploring the big, vulnerable themes I had been shying away from. 

What I discovered is that instead of making writing harder, facing these themes head-on made writing easier. In my earlier work I had frequently hit writing blocks, places in my outlining process where I felt like I was wading through mud. When I didn’t know what I was trying to say on a meta level with my story it was often hard to decide what should happen next at the plot level. I would send my characters from location to location, but I’d be unsure of what they should do there, because I was unclear on how their actions added up to a larger picture. That feeling of being stuck and uncertain over what should come next fell away when I started focusing more clearly on expressing my bigger themes. Suddenly the path forward felt smooth. All it took to follow it was bravery and persistence. 

I also achieved my initial goal in wanting to be a writer. I have now met and befriended many other authors, not the same set that I idolized as a teen, but different writers who are exploring many of the same themes and questions in their work as I do in mine. I have friends, colleagues, co-authors, and writing partners to thank in my acknowledgements– often more than I have space to name. 

During this month, I know many of you are focused solely on pouring out the words. That is very important, but I recommend you take some time to think about the larger themes of your story as well. What message, hope, fear, question, or truth are you trying to communicate to the world through your writing? I promise that clearly articulating your themes will help you tell your story and find the friends and writers who will become your community. 

Good luck, and know that I am writing alongside you, and rooting for you! 

Maia Kobabe, Fall 2023

#maia kobabe #nanowrimo #nano 2023 #national novel writing month #writing

[pinchinschlimbah]

Continuing from my previous post let's talk about the queercoding and themes in Dick Turpin episode 3! So first off, I had previously said I was hoping we'd get to hear more about Honesty's backstory since I was having a hard time identifying what his deal was, and I was delighted to find out this episode that the reason he needed less help finding himself than the other two is because he's got parents who are actively and enthusiastically supportive of his- and I use this phrase very intentionally- alternative lifestyle :)

In direct foil to this, the other main theme of the episode is Wilde's relationship with both himself and his son. Wilde is so caught up in the old fashioned, violent, and oppressive life path he's gone down that he views it as the only path and that anything less is failure. He prides himself in this toxic masculinity, and in the exchange Wilde and Dick have about it, Dick notes that Wilde seems insecure explicitly about not being the "big boss" in charge, and possibly implicitly (unbeknownst to Dick thus far) that Wilde's boss is a woman who has power over him. Just as we saw with Dick and his father in the first episode, Wilde seems to be resentful and embarrassed of his son for not living up to his expectations of what a man should be- he expresses frustration and dismissal towards Christopher for being too soft and not the violent criminal mastermind Wilde wishes his son to be, but also expresses that he feels Christopher is too fragile to be exposed to the world without his father's protection and therefore shouldn't be given the chance to have his own experiences. In response to Wilde explaining that he expects Christoper to follow in his tough guy crime boss footsteps, Dick remarks "what if he wants to be an artist....or a barista...or an artist who works as a barista" which you cannot tell me isn't deliberate queercoding!!

In the later conversation between Dick and Wilde, Dick tries to find common ground between them as they each list their interests and we're shown the divide between staunch seriousness and compassionate enjoyment, toxic masculinity vs joyful flamboyancy. During the eventual moment of vulnerability from Wilde, he admits that he feels like the joyful parts of him have been drained away by the society he exists in, and only the serious and evil parts are left over. Dick, who by his own self-confidence and unabashed authenticity has clearly evaded this same fate despite seemingly experiencing a similarly conservative upbringing, remarks that that's a really bleak way of existing, and encourages Wilde to spend more time with his son and enjoy the world around him. Wilde, to his credit, does actually work toward following this advice! Meanwhile, Christopher (or as Nell calls him, which feels significant to all of this in that so much of Noel's work casually has no regard for traditional perception of gender, "Jennifer") once left to his own devices ends up bonding with the gang and admits that he himself wants to be a highwayman. He becomes particularly attached to Moose, arguably the most queer-coded (and I wouldn't be surprised if it becomes more explicitly stated later in the show given how he's been portrayed so far) character in the show- arriving in London twirling in his dress and being excited about dancing, flamboyant hats, and the theatre. After Christopher gets to spend a day with someone who encourages his flamboyance and sense of joy and fun rather than expecting him to be someone he's not, Christopher seems changed for the better and more sure of himself, and once he's reunited with his father who has been on his own journey of learning this lesson, the episode ends with the indication of them moving forward together towards a more compassionate, accepting, and happier future. Anywayyyy, I love this silly little show so goddamn much already. Stay tuned for probably more in the coming weeks!

Editor’s note: I just realized I forgot to address that Dick’s first choice of disguise was a female character and that the fight club leader reacts to her as a pretty lady but also like….do I even need to point that out? Standard par for the course for a Noel media hahaha

#dick turpin #the completely made up adventures of dick turpin #noel fielding #gay yelling #shouts into void