#fic directors cut

[samdeancrimespree]

ok so. thinking of that post about how what we see on the show is the censored version of the winchester gospel, the version that makes them look “sympathetic” ….. now i just wanna write some between-episode cases that are so fucked up chuck was like oof ok let’s not talk about that

#i mean like. letting ppl die to protect each other … #the gory bloody violent shit… #and also possibly the weird kinky sex they had #but yk. #im talking The Winchester Gospel: unabridged. directors cut. extended edition #wincest #bonnie and clyde #mars.txt #fics

[delicrieux]

—𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭, ch.3: sweet dreams, chicago

pairing—carmy berzatto x f!reader   genre—drama, romance, age gap, boss/employee relationship warnings for this chapter—anxiety, (+18) masturbation, mb one (1) allusion to a blowjob, swearing, excessive use of cigarettes  word count—3.6k

detailed instructions on how to fuck up your life in 30 seconds

author’s note: tremendously down bad, lonely, and socially inept? not talking abt u LOSER im talking abt carmen. my lil meow meow 

masterlist | buy me coffee☕ | eyvcte masterlist | < back. next >

important! some of the dialogue scenes are written as a script & dialogues that overlap are marked in [] <3  

tell them

not white, gray – the exact color of cigarette ash, the red ember a reflected streak of sunlight; these walls box him in, and it’s always a surprise that space can feel so vast and so confining all at once. the plastic chair he sits on is unforgiving on his back. his foot sounds a pattern on the tiled floor to impair the silence.

he’s aware of it, of everything: his pursed lips, trembling lashes, quick blinks, slight sniffle, flitting irises, the light coat of sweat forming by his hairline. the taunt flex of his muscles; twitch of fingers that have nothing to grasp onto but each other. the tapping. pulsing in his jaw and temple. the tapping.

tell them

he tries to stare ahead, keep straight – it’s not expected of him, but he wishes he could do it. wishes he could face the silhouette sat across, too close and too far.

“well?” she prompts – a prim woman with a kind face sunken from all the miseries she had collected over the years, “how are you, carmen?”

a sharp exhale through the nose, like a humorless snort; corner of his lips pinching into a grimace that could resemble a smile, if one was generous enough, “how am i?” he repeats, “how am i?”

tell them

tell them

tell them your

“chef?”

storage closet. he keeps his hand firmly on the handle and breathes, jaw tense, head bent, illuminated in the shitty buzzing lights. the containers are organized – did it himself. methodically set cans with no spaces between them, all in neat rows. one’s a bit too close to the edge, sticking out. someone had moved it. he rubs his chin before pushing it back.

his hand falls from the handle and settles on his hip as he sighs, looks up, feels a rush of air tinted with spices and the overwhelming noise of the kitchen pierce the coveted silence of his hiding place when the door cracks open. she pokes her head in and he doesn’t look, can’t look, can’t sleep, can’t–

“you good?”

kindness is always startling, even when it’s the standard. her words hold no weight of deep inquiry, only a shallow question mark. it’s enough. he lives on scraps. “yeah, uh, thanks,” his tips his chin in her direction and his eyes flit over the crown of her head. can’t look for long;  he’ll search for thank you and love you despite knowing they’re covered.

“i was just, uh, was just, needed to check,” he vaguely motions behind himself, and the knot in his throat tightens slightly, “something, s-so…” maybe she decides to take him out of his misery. maybe he’s the only one that notices he’s drowning.

“family’s up.” she informs him, offers a small smile that he thinks is pity. can’t be sure.

“yeah, yeah, o-okay, i’ll, uh, i’ll, i’ll join you in a,” the hasty spill of his words slows, quiets. he inhales, brows crinkled and eyes focused on the new streaks on the floor he’ll have to clean, “i’ll join you in a minute.”

“i’ll save you a seat.” not a proposition mentioned aimlessly and left to rot in his subconscious, but a statement. and she’ll always save a seat for him, because he’ll always be late, and in the rare occasions that he won’t, he’ll be too early. she’ll save him a seat by the table and pat the couch next to herself when the staff’ll huddle to watch a Bulls game; she’ll save a slot for him on her free day to come into his office and help sort through papers; she’ll save her hand from others so that he could hold it and she’ll save a pair lace panties the color of her eyes that’ll tear through the flower pattern because he’ll be too rough and because he’ll like the way they look on her.

she’ll save a cup that’ll shatter during one of their arguments, glue it back together. the cracks will show, and it’ll be blotched, but he’ll still use it, even if the edge’ll be chipped and he’ll cut his lip and she’ll be long gone by then.

he’s mostly himself when he joins everyone, if he even knows what that entails. tina’s explaining form to marcus, and sydney’s on her phone, and richie and neil are discussing something with too many theatrics, and the rest of the staff shares idle conversation punctuated by comfortable silence. there’s an empty spot for him, food set in a plastic container and cutlery placed trimly – must’ve been her. too even, she’s borderline about these things. he appreciates them, because he’s like that, too.

a smile eases the tension from his shoulders, if a bit. he pulls the chair back, takes a seat, and her head ticks to the side to acknowledge him. no big speech, no welcome back or you good again, just a slight curiosity that makes her teeth pull on her lip. he dares a glance that doesn’t linger.

"verdict?” he asks the table, feeling the familiar flutter of anxiety squeeze his throat.

sydney: ‘s good. real good richie: too fucking fancy [god] this the type of shit they serve up in yee-whole-fucking-new-of-the-fucking-york? her: wouldn’t expect you to recognize shit from food [fuck you] since your mouth is always full of it richie: oh ha ha [cousin] look at us folks [cousin] we got a fucking comedian with us tina: shut it [so/rry] both of you. not by the table richie: not by the fucking table, kid [fuck you] marcus: i like it

it’s kinda funny, it’s kinda familiar, it’s kinda comforting. he glances at her again, sees her holding up her knife like a sword aimed at richie on the other side of the table. they mimic one another – in movement, in tone, in smiles that are careful not to display too much. friends. carmen watched this happen in his peripherals, sometimes through the haze of cigarette smoke. observed the pointed jabs and nudges that were harder each time as if they were competing who could knock the other off of their feet first. stupid, amusing, the nascence of a friendship.

whatever. it’s not that, it’s just, just that carmen’s the way he is and someone could roll their eyes at him and kill and sydney, well, he got along with sydney instantly – she came at a confusing fucking time, a breath of fresh air, and really, for a while, he only had her to help him navigate the clusterfuck of a dynamic of his brother’s staff. she was new, he was new, and it was natural they stuck together to survive the nuclear winter of a chicagoan kitchen. till he was approved as one of them, and she was, too, but, and it’s nothing, it’s dumb, fucking idiotic, it’s like he’s six again all of a sudden and no one wants to play ball with him in the fucking playground.

he’s not even left out, and he still feels like he’s somehow forbidden to join, even if he doesn’t want to, even if he doesn’t know what to say. as if he’d break some sacred law and inspire a drastic butterfly affect that would ripple into something abhorrent. the other shoe. there’s no first one and he’s already waiting for the drop.

“cousin,” richie calls, “cousin, she’s trying to fucking murk me. pretty sure that violates some sorta fine print.”

“better sleep with one eye open in that case.” carmy mumbles, a faint smile pulling on the corner of his lips as he watches the exchange briefly before he returns to the food. melts in his mouth. holds a sweet, syrupy tang, and, fuck, this is noma, this has fucking noma written all over it, even the cinnamon zest blended with orange peel.

no noma on her resume; dad must’ve taught her, then. how to blend and cook all of this shit to make the chicken taste like butter. probably needed to scour the whole kitchen for leftover ingredients, open a few rusted drawers for pipettes to measure lemon drops. stay up again prepping. filming. not sleeping. don’t look.

needlessly complicated and missing some parsley. coincidentally, they ran out of it this morning.

he looks at her because she’s not looking at him and for a moment he takes in her profile – the slope of her nose and the dip leading to her cupid’s bow. “‘s good.” he says after a short pause, and as soon as she turns in his direction he’s back to his food. the taste, this time, is compounded by added discomfort, “where’d you learn this from, anyway? there are recipe?”

“my dad. sorta,” she explains, “he’s also a chef. and he used to make it for me when i came to visit, soooooo, since it was my first time cooking family ‘n all…i thought, why not? y’know? just to upset richie.”

“heard that, kid.”

he snorts, leaning back into his chair, head dipped and container held in hand. glances at her from under his lashes, and maybe direct eye contact is not as scary when he wants her to be looking back. that small smile of his is pulls on his lips again, “‘s good.” he repeats.

“you like it?” her voice can be soft, and so can her features.

“i like it,” he admits, “thank you, chef.”

she smiles and it’s like a fucking firework.

he tries not to look too hard, scared what he might find there. metronome. dull, almost, like the beating of his heart in his chest, yet it pulses through him, from the back of his head all the way to his feet. the tapping.

tell them

he rubs his faces with his hands, leans forward, as if the words are physically trying to get out. doesn’t want to say it; doesn’t want to admit that he can’t dress for the weather and that he’s wearing a gray woolen sweater which blends into these walls, that he blends in, that he’s invisible.

“i’ve, uh,” pinches the bridge of his nose, wanes the upcoming headache – too many cigarettes and not enough sleep, “i’ve been going through somethin’.”

like her pictures on a late monday night fresh out of the shower. the phone light catches damp hair falling in ringlets. the towel is still slung around his shoulders – white, clean, he’s done his laundry, it’s a fucking miracle. it was a notification that distracted him mid-way putting on a t-shirt, was like a beacon in the dark on his bedside table. bare feet padded to grasp it and here he stands, gaping like a fucking idiot with nothing but boxers on and cold water dripping down his back.

wasn’t supposed to look. made a promise, swore it in the mirror staring into clear blue eyes that held nothing. wasn’t his intention, either, it just happened. everything seems to just happen to him. she just seem to text him at 1 in the morning the recipe from a few days back, and he just seems to find her profile again because he just wants to look. no further reason. she just seems to follow him and he just seems to pretend not to notice because he’s not very good at this, he’s not really good at anything.

and there she is, confined in a little electronic device held in his hand, looking at the camera, looking at him, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself. text back, likely, but he can’t think of a response – thank you? thanks? thumbs up emoji? chef emoji? just to mix it up a bit. the mattress dips when he sits on the bed. where the fuck are his cigarettes?

never too far, and the lighter isn’t, either, so he stands, and his phone is still in his hand like the thing is fucking glued to it, and he cracks the window open to let the summer night in. chicago doesn’t sleep, and neither does she, it seems, but he doesn’t, either, and when his teeth have something to bite onto he feels like he found an anchor.

thank you and love you are objectively interesting detonators, but there are other rare gems. where she’s smiling. look taken off-guard and never by her personally, always by someone else: hugging a bottle in the midnight new york vista, nursing a to-go cappuccino by the bodega too early in the morning, holding up a plastic puka shell necklace in the backdrop of a souvenir shop somewhere in yucatan. hugging her mother wearing a tracksuit while the former’s poised in a neat blazer. they look similar. carmen looks like his mother, too.

she’s more approachable when her eyes crinkle and cheeks apple and lips stretch to reveal a crescent line in the corner. pretty. real pretty. too pretty. maybe that’s why he doesn’t know what to say. maybe she doesn’t expect him to say anything. maybe that’s why she sent the message.

‘s not fair. he knows too much about her. knows her dad’s a renowned chef and her mother’s a business exec with a penthouse in brooklyn; knows she gets her tattoos in-house, on the couch, from some low-key junkie-looking artist that always wears a beanie;  knows she worked in an upscale restaurant in wallstreet. chef whites, neat, trimmed, fitting – nothing he can offer in his fucked joint. fuck is she doing in chicago, anyway? spent last summer backpacking across europe with a distinctly new york-looking art school dropouts that wore the latest sneakers and tiffany necklaces. rich kids, rich kid, what she gets now was likely her daily allowance.

all of that just because he’s noisy. just because he’s curious. just because she’s pretty and he’s too scared to actually talk to her.

shouldn’t talk to her about anything anyway. too awkward – can hardly form a coherent sentence without ripping his hair out in the first place. he’s her boss, she’d think he’s a fucking weirdo if she knew how much he had gathered about her already. just from looking. does sydney know? does richie know? that would be fucked. oddly insulting, even. but since carmen hasn’t heard richie calling her a spoiled brat yet, he supposes it’s safe to assume this information hasn’t reached him yet.

parasocial as shit. he feels on the verge of a panic attack by the way his heart is hammering in his chest. maybe it’s the 5th cigarette. maybe it’s because he’s been sleep deprived. maybe it’s because looking at her makes him lonely and this is fucked and just put the fucking phone down, carmen.

she's really hot, though. but he can’t say so, not out loud. not right now. not here. not in front of the bed, where the mattress sags when he sits, or in the window, where the wind rattles the glass ringing of common sense.

‘thanks for the recipe’ is a good start, ‘cool tats by the way’ is definitely a line that has crossed his mind, but can’t text that, either. too personal. too easy. too close. fuck did he look at them anyway, too busy staring at her tits. fuck.

she’d think he’s a creep because somehow, in the divine comedy of his life, he’d let it slip somehow, because he’s stupid. because thank you and love you slap at him on odd hours during the day. because he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

feels like he’s a teen again and a girl from school sent him her homework to copy. only the girl in a hot rich kid from nyc that works in his restaurant and is so far out of his league that she’s in a different fucking orbit.

the mattress dips again. he closes his eyes, exhales slowly, rubs his face with his free hand. can’t stop thinking. can’t stop looking. staring. wanting. get a fucking hold of yourself. doesn’t want to. too tired. too fucked. too alone.

she’s so pretty.

so smart.

so fucking pretty.

what is he doing? what the fuck is he doing?

he tries to swallow, but it feels like there's sand in his throat. can't think straight, every corner leads to her anyway in a comical gotcha moment. can't go back. can't go forward. can't do anything but sit here, stare at the phone, think the last threads of his fizzling mind will conceive a reply.

say something. say something.

she's so fucking pretty and his dick is so fucking hard.

inhales again, this time slowly. feels the first tremors of an erection ignored, the pulse in his neck, in his wrists.

his heart is pounding and he wants her to look at him, wants to look at her, wants to feel her touch him, wants to show her how much he wants her.

"fucking christ," he can hear the breathless crack in his voice. feel it, taste it.

his face burns and his hair falls over his forehead, already drying. there's sweat on his brow and a lump in his throat from the steady rise of panic, anticipation, desperation, whateverthefuck. the blood in his veins pounds through his chest – he can feel the vibration in his bones, and god, god god god, he’s so fucking horny.

can't move. can't breathe. can't think. can't stand being alone. can't stand the silence. can't stand not doing anything and can’t stand being like this because he’s not supposed to. not allowed, breach of contract, jesus, who does this shit in their spare time? a lot of people, probably, but carmen wouldn’t know.

"fuck."

he wants to close his eyes because she’s so cold on the screen but so warm in his mind. can’t do that. can't stop palming dick over his boxers, either – wants to pull them down, but that would mean looking at himself, so he stares at her picture instead.

he feels like a teenager again, vaguely wants to throw up. can't believe how hard he is. he's not supposed to be like this. this isn't going to end well.

he knows he's gonna fuck this up because he's already fucking it up. can't stop staring at her. can't stop touching himself. can't stop thinking about what she'd do if she knew he was sitting here ready to jerk off to her.

she'd probably freak the fuck out, and she'd have every right to. that doesn't stop that wandering hand of his from dipping below the elastic band anyway.

his breath scratches at his throat, stuck there as he feels his hand brush something warm. glances down, sees his middle finger pressing against the swollen tip. looks back at the phone, sees her smile, the hint of her teeth; his cock twitches at the sight of her like some deranged pavlovian response. his fingers curl around his shaft and go down in a nice, long stroke.

"fuck me," he hisses. eyes squeeze shut and hips push forward and head rolls back to release a small groan.

it's a slow slide of a rough palm, with just enough pressure to cause shivers. he thinks of her lips wrapped around his him. the way her tongue would tease him. the way her hair would tickle his thighs.

"so pretty," he breathes, but the words are lost in the rhythm of his hand, "fuck, sorry."

fingers and palm slide over the sensitive head, each pass adding more pressure until his hips buck and it feels like someone punched him in the gut and he sucks in a breath, the sound coming out more like a moan; squeeze, tighter this time, and he groans louder, caught somewhere between pain and pleasure. teeth clamp down on his lower lip and all the oxygen in his lungs leaves with that.

the hand with the hand pierced by a kitchen knife pumps faster, coating the creases and veins in warm, sticky pre-cum leaking from the tip and leaving a stain on his boxers. he's breathing heavily, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm that matches the throbbing of his cock.

he's so close already. so close he feels like he might actually lose his mind if he doesn't come soon.

"hm, fuck," he breathes out, eyes squeezing shut and fist tightening around the shaft as his hips jerk forward to meet the movement.

everything is swimming and spinning in the liquid dark around him, all the sensations coiled up into one chaotic bundle that's threatening to overwhelm him.

"yes," can't be his voice, can it? too raw, too desperate, too loud.

fist tightens even more and the throbbing is too much. feels like something is trying to get out of his body, like it's going to burst through his skin.

"oh fuck. oh fuck, oh fuck—"

everything is happening at once. everything is mounting to a small cry of her name.

he comes. coughs and huffs, head tipping back and hand still pumping. there's a low groan coming from his chest that sounds like it originated from some other person entirely.

then, it stills. his back hits the bed and he tries to gulp down air that stutters down his throat, the phone bouncing on the mattress beside him. the motions ripple in his spine, in tensed muscles that’ve gone lax. calm. outside the window, a siren howls first, then a dog.

he’s spent. feels good. cold air bites skin coated in sweat, like ice melting in the bed of a warm palm. “fuck.”

but the reality of the situation rips through the haze just as quick, and ignited by a sudden fucking unbearable anger, he grabs his phone and throws it across the room, “FUCK.”

ch.4: normal people

tags <3 @rexorangecouny - @astridyoo15 - @elliesbabygirl - @fortisfilia - @diorrfairy - @frequentnosebleeder - @eddiemunsonreader 

more notes: sum fun lil gemmie gems for my narrative lovin girlies in chat  1. timeline is worky asf, things flowing in an out perception - imagine it like moving frames of the show 2. carmy says “’s good” whilst he admires her silently - is he referring to her or the food? 3. who text their boss at 1am? rich kid explain 4. the swearing increases the more he’s distressed 5. major virgin alert, can u tell? 6. this is the only chapter so far where ive used caps lock

#the bear #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto x reader #carmen x reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto smut #carmy x reader #the bear imagine #imagine #imagines #reader #xreader #we need the extended version directors cut live commentary with bloopers for the second half of this fic

[non-un-topo]

More clothing studies, this time from my fic Axis. I was aiming for authenticity while also trying to have each of their personalities show a little bit in their clothing choices. Two for Nicky, to show his layers.

#tog #the old guard #for reference the fic takes place in 1625 in iceland. i still don't think they're bundled enough though lol. #nicolo di genova #yusuf al kaysani #andromache of scythia #no quynh :( #these were a n i g t m a r e to crop correctly. tumblr why are you like this. #hence the cropping might look a little weird #siggy draws #i think these sketches took a month and a half lol. now i will be quiet about this fic and focus on writing something else. #what do we think about this style? the differently coloured lineart and the slight lighting? and the rough colours? #also i forgot my siggynature on ALL of these but that's ok. you know who i am sdfghf #my new obsession is clothing details i guess!! could always make it more detailed though! with lots of practice i can try. #no real director's commentary on these drawings like i usually write for my sketches asdsfgfd #just that this is mostly what they wear in the fic. add a coat for andy maybe and some mitts for joe. #and more weapons and bags and stuff #can't really see nicky's braids but he's got one big french braid and a few tiny ones on the sides of his head connecting to it. #his hair is like shoulder-blade length. it's about the symbolism!! of not making a change for a long time!! until he does cut it!! #and andy is wearing quynh's necklace under her shirt of course </3 #joe rolls his pantaloons above the knee for maximum movement (horseriding) and fashion (gay) #i have a crush on the first nicky sketch like he's so cunty for no reason #well. he's possibly supposed to be having a serious conversation/argument with andy #kudos to the ref picture i used of luca just standing Like That

[deathonthe]

ferrari parked outside | 1633

pairing: charles/max

rating: explicit

word count: ~5000

tags: established relationship, slightly non-linear narrative, under-negotiated kink, somnophilia, riding

summary:

Max is an embarrassing amount of gin and tonics into the night when Lando shouts very loudly into his ear. “Does Charles pay for everything for you?” “What?” Max shouts back. “I mean like– Seems like he’s always paying for you, mate,” Lando says. Holds both hands up in the air and dubiously glances to the side. “Not that I’m judging or anything.” “He doesn’t pay for everything,” Max lamely insists.

director's cut:

the following are my notes and thoughts during the writing of this fic. they should in no way influence the way you've interpreted it! but feel free to read it to gain some extra insight into my pea-sized brain

ok. one thing u should know about me is that i will constantly push the max verstappen babygirl agenda no matter what. sugar baby max is pretty adjacent to that

i spent an awful about of time deciding the opening scene, between first scene (B) and the following directly after (A), idk how many times i swapped the two. i was afraid if i started off with B, it would kinda give a tacky record scratch effect when u reach A. but starting with A made the progression into B seem unnatural and too abrupt so. in the end i went with B, then A because the fic gradually loses its seriousness and matches the kinda light humour it progresses into

the line "I want chocolates and those bread rolls they bake fresh." took me a god awful amount of time to write. at first i wanted max to specify a monte carlo cafe to make it seem more genuine but all the reviews for cafes in monaco were in french! which i suppose i should've expected. in the end i went with that even though i'm not completely happy with it

another thing u should know about it is that i care about character voice and characterisation above all else. i try my best to emulate how these people sound. i always sift through so much interview material while writing a fic to try and get the drivers' voice tones and linguistic quirks and body language as accurately and naturally as possible. and too be honest, i don't think i did that very well in this fic. i think i could have imitated it better

a little bit of french, of course. they live in monaco, charles speaks french. max doesn't speak enough, so not quite as much french as other fics (for example, for esteban and lance, i would generally write about half of their dialogue in french if they were only speaking to each other in a scene. it feels more authentic as esteban and lance communicate in french when they are talking to each other in real life)

i designated charles three terms of endearment: baby, cheri and mon cher

nothing made me happier than when it became canon that max calls charles 'charlie' in real life, because i was gonna scrap it from the fic because i thought it sounded ooc

to be clear, i never intended to give charles a daddy kink in this fic. you can assume he doesn't have one. neither does max

the running joke is that this is actually a proposal fic and not a sugar baby one

in the lando scene, when max cuts him off before he can finish his sentence, lando is about to say: "and charles also paid for martjin to dj at this red bull party for u." i wasn't sure if the implication was very strong, though

in actuality, max cuts off lando with a "fuck off" and lando says later "why the fuck would i be, charles isn't my fucking boyfriend" but i thought that was too many fucks and ended up taking all but one of them out

i know charles doesn't drive a red laferrari

the other running joke in this fic is obviously charles is not ever watching the whale documentary seriously. he was instead always thinking or focused on something else in his head

the ice cream scene came to me in a fever dream

charles can't actually procure the cheesecake factory, he's about $125 million in net worth. the cheesecake factory is over $1 billion

i am not a fan (i.e., i am actually just a hater) of when max is depicted like an aggressive, overly possessive, hyper-masculine suave, dom caricature from an e l james erotica novel and when charles is just delegated the softer, more feminine counterpart automatically. so. u see me subverting that expectation a lot

i had a lot of fun writing victoria's part where she cooks both charles and max within 100 words

did you know this fic is exactly 14 pages on google docs? i thought that was pretty cool

if i had to sum up this fic in three words: chekov's schrodinger's proposal

thanks for staying 'til the end!

#max verstappen #charles leclerc #lestappen #mv1 #mv33 #cl16 #3316 #1633 #f1 fanfic #i call it a director's cut but really it's just me yapping #my fic #f1 #formula one #formula 1

[skitskatdacat63]

Boy King AU | Vettonso + Martian | 1.3k

There's something about putting the future emperor of the Holy Realm on his knees like this. About how easily he goes, how willingly, how obediently. What would his adoring public think if they could see him now. If they saw their beloved king pressed down like this, in the cramped space between Fernando's legs. When they realized their little boy king took it like he was a little concubine instead. 

Fernando's bitterness is lifted away in moments like these, like taking off a heavy cloak on a winter's day. It was hard to feel humiliated about his own situation when watching Sebastian debase himself like this. 

He always gives himself up so easily. When Fernando threaded his fingers through his thick curls. When he pulled them, and then when he pressed his face down further down into the vee of his legs.  Sebastian rubbed his cheek into the coarse fabric of Fernando's breeches and blinked up at him. Fernando had to smother an embarrassing sound; he was just like a little cat!

Sebastian quirked his lips up into an odd little smile and slightly rose up on his knees, "What's funny?" Fernando swallowed lightly and schooled his face back into being impassive, "Nothing. As you were." Sebastian simply smirked at him and let himself be pushed back down by the fist clenched in his hair. 

Fernando scoffed internally, there was only so much pleasure in putting the other man in his place when he instead acted like this, this degrading action, was his birthright. He took to ruling and indulging in carnal pleasures as if they were of equal gravity. To be privileged to hold such high station and also let himself be taken apart like this…Fernando felt embarrassed for him.

He is dragged away from his musings when Sebastian moved to settle his hands in Fernando's lap, clutching his hips over the fabric and slightly squeezing; Fernando fought against the urge to shiver. Sebastian pushed up the skirt of Fernando's waistcoat and smoothed his hands over the opening flap of his breeches.

His eyes darted up at Fernando again, a daft smile on his face. Fernando scowled at him, "What?" Seb's grin sharpened, "You could stand to be a little more gracious. This is your future emperor, and future husband might I add, kneeling for you on this dirty, depraved, derelict- ah–" Fernando tugged on his hair again and hissed, "Well then, why don't you show me how eager you are to perform your marital duties?" 

Seb licked his lips, completely unconcerned by Fernando's annoyance, and unbuttoned one side of the closure to Fernando's breeches and moved to open the other–

The door to the carriage flew open, arrival announcement dying on a wheezing breath as the servant took in the image the two kings made. One splayed across the seat, exuding power, the other kneeled, debauched, between the former's legs. 

One would be hard pressed to determine which was higher on the totem of power and titles. 

There was something gratifying about this to Fernando, about being caught. He had been humiliated enough throughout the entire courtship, what was one more thing? And, certainly, what was one more thing if he could drag Sebastian down into the dirt with him. 

"Oh Mark, don't act so abashed! It's nothing you haven't seen before, in fact, we have been in this very position not even a fortnight ago!"

Oh. Yes. That. 

It was hard to be completely pleased when he remembered how Sebastian had already spent years prior to their engagement sampling the palace's ample selection of fellow high-born men. And how all those men seemed to be completely and utterly wrapped around his little finger.

Fernando released his hand from Sebastian's hair as if it had burned him. He did not understand why he felt ashamed with Mark looking in on them like this. Fernando was the one marrying Sebastian, not Mark; Mark was just a lowly courtier who had the esteemed duty of spending practically every waking hour with the brat…something he himself was decidedly not looking forward to. 

Sebastian stayed kneeling, staring impassively up at Mark, still fiddling with the clasp on Fernando's breeches. Fernando gritted his teeth and looked up from where he was watching Sebastian's clever little hands; Mark stared back at him placidly. 

Mark's indifference made the entire situation worse. Fernando now felt as if he was not doing anything unique, not doing anything particularly new. How many other men had Mark caught Seb with in this exact position? Fernando felt like he was just another plaything of the boy king, soon to be boy emperor, except his position was forever, permanent. He was the "Kept King", the king who only kept his throne due to the whims of a boy who doesn't even understand what power is.

Mark coughed, "Well," he says, "Your Majesty, I do believe you have a meeting to attend." Seb pouted at him and whined, "We were just getting to the main course," but still braced himself on Fernando's thighs and got up off the carriage floor. 

Seb pranced down the steps Mark had placed next to the carriage, miming tripping sown the stairs, snickering when his action made Mark reflexively reach out to grab him, and then playfully skipped off the final step. 

Fernando couldn't help but stare as Mark made the weirdest grimace in response, and he inexplicably felt all his mortification seep away from him. Huh. Maybe Mark is-

Seb then turned around and frowned at him, seemingly disappointed, but his eyes are deceivingly sharp, "Fernando, I regret to inform you that I have other duties I must attend to, you will simply have to wait." He then grinned up at Mark next to him and giggled as the other man stiffened when Sebastian looped both of his arms through Mark's. 

He leaned all his weight on the other man, Mark not so much as shifting his weight, "Oh Mark, won't you carry me back to the palace? I'm so very tired after all the horse riding," Seb looked up at him imploringly.

Fernando observed as Mark rolled his eyes and shrugged off the man, though notably not pulling his arm from Seb's grasp, and he got the distinct feeling that this exact scene had been played out countless times before. 

Fernando clenched his jaw as he watched Seb turn and saunter off, Mark trotting alongside him like a loyal dog. Fernando was supposed to be the unaffected one in this partnership, the unflustered one, the unconcerned one. And yet here he stood, in broad daylight, in a foreign kingdom, on the steps of a carriage with his breeches half unbuttoned and his cravat in disarray. 

He heard a cough from beside him, jolted and looked to the side. Sebastian's loyal Horse Master stood there, lounging against the side of the carriage. Fernando had forgotten who had even been driving the carriage in the first place. After Seb has let himself be pushed down, his hair still windswept from their ride together, everything else seemed to fade away. His thoughts were reduced only to how he could mess up the younger man's hair further. 

Jenson grinned at him wolfishly, and casually crossed his legs,  "First time?" he inquired. Fernando glared at him. The other man laughed openly at him, "What? He's a busy man with big prospects. You're not his majesty's only conquest, you know. Now your throne on the other hand…"

Fernando seethed, it was one thing to be humiliated by the future emperor, but to be patronized by the king's horse boy? No. It would simply not do. He closed his eyes in annoyance, pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled, and prepared a speech about how he was not about to be talked down to by a man who didn't even have a throne to speak of! 

But when he opened his eyes again and opened his mouth to begin his tirade, Jenson was already wandering away to tend to the horses. Dios mío, Fernando was not mentally prepared to spend the rest of his life with all of these impertinent morons. 

#i love how i kept saying to people: no no i shant write any fic for this. only art. #me like two weeks later: hey guys :) #this is just: i was sitting in class and had a drawing idea but then im obv not drawing *this* in class so my brain went into narrative mod #not exactly 'baby's first ficlet!!!' but moreso ive not written in a while so i hope its alright??? #but aaahhh this was actually pretty fun!! idk i think it was bcs i was also being brainrotted by the image of seb kneeling.... #maybe ill draw it. but it felt like something that needed the context of narrative and not just oo here is a drawing! #anyways you can always ask me for a directors cut-(PLEASE PLEAE BEGGING PLEASE) #see this is why im not cut out for writing fic #its not like i dont think it can speak for itself. more that im just an overly reflective person who wants to explain all my thoughts #if i wrote fic itd really be just: chapter 1. chapter 1.5 chapter 2. chapter 2.5 #anyways i think its pretty obvious but this is before their wedding and just like peak bitterness. #well not peak. peak would be the first year- first few months of their marriage #but this is fernando who is only just realizing how naive all his expectations of seb were and getting a glimpse of his future #but mostly: mindgames and power play and: whos actually really winning? #also my god jense is literally the best chara in this au. he is vibing and basically just witnessing ye olde reality tv #mark and fernando are always in a weird powerplay with seb(even if seb isnt even consiously doing so) and jense is just free from it all #hmm now how does one go about tagging fic #vettonso #f1 fanfic #formula 1 fanfic #f1 #formula 1 #martian #sebmark #also idk why im always so concerned abt tagging when im basically just writing this for my little boy king following i have somehow formed #hahaha! it is art to me!: #catie.art. #boy king au

[no2ticonderoga]

ItSotK Update Master Post

HELLO!

The two year birthday celebration for "In the Service of the King" has begun!

Today, I updated the following chapters:

September 1808

April 1809

August 1809

March 1811

October 1811

July 1813

A few of these were only minor updates. (March 1811, for example, has very minimal changes, but I fixed things that annoyed me.)

Starting tomorrow, I will update one new chapter a day!

November 1804

June 1805 (This one was posted on 6/28)

July 1806 (This one was posted on 6/27, I mixed up my timeline...)

January 1807

November 1807

July 1808

December 1808

February 1809

July 1809

July 1810

August 1811

April 1812

April 1813

August 1813

July 1814

#pjo #regency au #napoleonic au #fic #writing #in the service of the king #directors cut

[corvidfeathers]

a while back I was 1.5 hours into watching the 3 hour director’s cut of kingdom of heaven with @agarthanguide and thoroughly enjoying myself when I was struck with the dawning realization that I am never going to be able to convince anyone else to sit down and watch the full three hours of this with me and she was like, with audible glee, “you’re definitely not!”

#hannah playing the long game by befriending me via arthurian fic to have someone to watch kingdom of heaven (director’s cut) with #not really BUT she does know the best knight movies #corvid rambles

[lottiecrabie]

the significance of galatea in ‘galatea, take one’

the song and the concept of galatea was an important metaphor throughout galatea, take one — pretty obviously as it is part of its title — and i really needed to talk about it. i decided to pour my thoughts out and send this bottle into the wild. i hope it finds you.

reader starts the fic as galatea, very obviously and even hinted on later. she’s just come out of this relationship with a painter who, at least in her point of view, saw her as ‘unfinished’ and aimed to ‘complete’ her. these feelings have left her reeling at the idea of being a muse and the material consequences of an artist-object relationship. there’s this initial reticence about matty because she doesn’t want to fall into this same dynamic again.

she starts the writing of this song with a clear objective. the first verse describes the beating, electric love between pygmalion and galatea, keeping a purposeful nebulous understanding of who exactly is the speaker. later, the song reveals it’s galatea, leaving us wondering if the mentioned ‘love’ is really this pure if, in the end, she’s literally made for this man.

but as she writes more and more songs about matty, she finds herself blurring her position as galatea. falling in love with matty and finding inspiration from him, reader is acutely aware that she’s placing him in the position of muse. now, there’s a fear that she’s romanticizing him, making him like her very own statue.

the galatea song, always being worked and reworked, changes because of it. the speaker becomes convoluted— it’s unclear if the point of view is of pygmalion or galatea, just as it’s increasingly clear to the readers how delusional she is getting in contrast. though there seems to be genuine care and feelings between the two, she makes them grander, wishes him to be better. she’ll twist his words until they sound like she wants them to, reflecting the sculptor of her story.

the more she wants him, the more the song changes. it’s briefly a love song— some desperate attempt to force feelings onto matty. ‘galatea loves pygmalion’ is a very comforting thought when you’re the sculptor. there is a certain sense of aphrodite breathing life into galatea to these new lyrics. in practically saying ‘matty loves me’, she’s essentially trying to make it magically true because she wrote it down. however, matty calls her out on it and she quickly goes back to her original meaning.

the song ends in this confused state, though leaning further into pygmalion. as a lyric uses ‘she’, it gives us an idea that it is him telling the story. she even borrows lines she wrote about matty for the song, making it clearly about him on a certain level. her friend does mention being unsure who the speaker is, which shows us that the nebulous point of view remains. still, by the end of its creation, the song and speaker has completely shifted. it is why she affirms ‘galatea’ would not have been the same without matty: this change would have never happened.

in parallel, by the end of the story, she also realizes how much she romanticized and made matty up in her mind, and has to come to terms with the fact that she is the creator of their relationship. this grandiose summer romance was mostly lived in her head. his marble crumbles to the ground and he’s left just like her at the end of her past relationship: bloody and bruised.

she is the muse and the creator, she is the object and the artist. she is the victim and the perpetuator.

#i could go on about this fic forever!!! #her seeing that statue and being distraught because it reminds her of how she was hurt being a muse #and then asking matty what he sees and it’s the same thing as her Implying to her that he is also being made a muse #one of my favorite scenes #lottiecrabie director’s cut #galatea take one #crabie

[sparxwrites]

"Play Your Part", director's cut edition

[original fic]

“I killed him,” says Grian, as Scar comes up behind him. He’s staring down at Bigb’s grave – at the improvised headstone, the wilting flowers, the little handful of sand poured on top of it like an offering. He doesn’t look sad, exactly. A bit regretful, maybe. But mostly just confused, as though this wasn’t inevitably what happened when you dropped rocks on people’s head at close range. 

As though this wasn’t always where they were heading – a red life, a shallow grave, and no remorse.

Scar is back on his I know how stories work bullshit. In my head, he’s always like… a weird combination of superior, because he can manipulate stories like no one else can, and bewildered, because it’s so obvious, guys. It’s so obvious where they’ve been heading, to him. He’s been able to see it since the story first hooked into them, locked into its course. Right now, though, I think he’s mostly just bitter.

“Yes,” says Scar, cold and unkind. He stops a few feet from Grian, and makes no move to come closer. No move to reach out and offer comfort. “You did.”

Like I said! Bitter. And he’s hiding it so well. :)

“He was my secret soulmate,” says Grian. He sounds lost, a little. He looks up from the fresh-turned earth, dark eyes drawn to Scar’s red ones. “What am I supposed to do now?”

Grian… not so good at stories. He’s above all that. He’s clever enough to do what he wants! He’s got agency! (This is deeply sarcastic, btw.) Which means he’s bewildered, each and every time, when the narrative bonks him over the head with a tragedy he’s very obviously (to others who know stories, i.e. Scar) locked himself into from the start.

Scar closes his eyes for a moment, and breathes through the red thump thump thump of his heart. He’s gritting his teeth so hard he can feel his pulse in his molars. 

Red because hearts are red, blood is red. Red because the red mist descending as a metaphor for uncontrollable anger. Red for red life.

“You play your part,” he says, and though he aims for cruel, he mostly hits tired. “I’m your soulmate. Not him. And now he’s dead, and we’re not, and the story must go on. So. We’re both red. We’re in love. We kill people. We play the game, together. That’s what we do.”

This is Scar admitting a lot of stuff semi-unintentionally, under the guise of educating Grian about what the server’s story is. We’re in love is especially sharp, though I doubt Grian catches it – it implies that they’re not really in love (or at least, one of them (Grian) isn’t), they’re just play acting it for the sake of the narrative. It’s also an indication that this narrative is a strong one, a big one. Stuff like friendship points is a small narrative. Sure, it hooks people in, but it isn’t all that binding. Scar can weaponise it. But this one… this one is too big, too hungry, too off-the-leash, for him to have any hope of that. Because Grian started this one, and Grian always lets his stories get out of control. So now the only way to survive is to play the game.

“But–”

“You play your part, Grian.” Scar’s voice is flat, unyielding, and brooks no argument.

Grian, as always, brooks one regardless. He sets his jaw, juts his chin out like a stubborn child. The motion is so endearing, so familiar, it makes Scar’s cold chest ache. “What if I don’t want to?”

Agency is throwing a temper tantrum when fate pulls the trigger on that Chekov’s gun you left lying on the kitchen table in plain sight, according to Grian. According to Scar, that’s called being a dumb fucking idiot. You don’t leave a gun on the table and then get surprised when someone picks it up and shoots it. Especially not in a server that’s been taught to love death.

“You think Pearl wants to be crazy?” snaps Scar, the tiredness burning away into irritation. “You think Scott wants to hate her? You think Martyn and Cleo want to do whatever the hell it is they’re doing? You think Impulse really loves Bdubs?” He pauses, his eyes hard. “You think I really love you?” Grian flinches. Scar presses on. “No. But we’ve all got our roles to play, and we’re playing them, because that’s how this works. There’s a story to be told, here, and I for one want it over, as soon as damn well possible. And so, just like everyone else on this godsforsaken server other than you, I’m playing my part.”

This… is a little bit my headcanon for the Life smps (other than ‘fun murder holiday’, which is my Other headcanon for the Life smps). That like… I touched a bit on this in Battle Plans, but this idea that the Hermits are being dragged into this, and they’re terrified of it, and they’re pissed off with it, and they’re doing their best to just make it stop. There’s a very real sense I was trying to get across of them being puppets on a string here, where they’re all miserable and scared and feel like they’re being forced to dance for someone else’s entertainment.

“I swore– Scar, you know I swore I’d never– I wouldn’t let Them control me again–”

Trauma? About the Watchers? From Grian? :) Nah, couldn’t be. No idea what you’re talking about.

“For once in your life, listen to me,” snaps Scar, grabbing Grian by the front of his jumper. Grian’s staring like he’s never seen Scar before – and maybe he hasn’t, not like this. Not cold with anger, cruel with frustration, face blank and eyes dead. “There is a narrative loose on this server and, one way or another it’s going to eat us all alive. Now– we can either get it over and done with, as quick as we can. Or, we can fight it, and lose, and drag the whole goddamn thing out for no goddamn reason. And we have all, collectively, picked option one – other than you. So.” He shakes Grian, hard enough to half-lift him off the ground. Hard enough he sways where he stands, held up only by Scar’s fist curled tight in his clothing. “Play. Your. Part, Grian.”

(John Mulaney voice) There's a narrative LOOSE on the SERVER. But also, more seriously, a) me back on my narrative bullshit again, and b) this is Scar being like. the server has collectively given up. What he's describing is functionally everyone on the server collectively committing indirect suicide, which is horrific.

Grian gulps. Swallows. Nods, tersely. 

Scar lets him go. Raises an eyebrow. When he crosses his arms over his bare, scarred chest, his fingers dig bruises into his own biceps.

“Yeah. Okay,” says Grian, tight and miserable. “Fine. I’ll play the stupid bloody game. Fine.”

“Okay, what?” says Scar, and wishes the victory felt less hollow.

Scar’s just being nasty and vindictive now. This has nothing to do with narratives, and everything to do with punishing Grian for his infidelity.

“Okay, beloved.” The endearment sounds like a razor blade in Grian’s mouth.

Two can play at that game.

Scar swallows bile. For a second, the ice in his eyes cracks. There’s heat beneath the surface, a raging, howling fire somewhere just below the cold. Then it’s gone. The ice returns.

Literally no one is fucking happy about this. They’re both mad at each other for dumb bullshit reasons because they’re toxic and dysfunctional and don’t fucking talk to one another and are madly in love without ever actually telling the other person explicitly and therefore both dealing with ‘unrequited’ love in the worst and stupidest way possible here. Guys. C’mon. You could fix this with a lil bit of talk therapy, I swear to god.

“Good,” he says, with a bright smile, and takes Grian’s hand. Pulls him away from the grave. Grian lets him, his fingers cold, his grip slack in Scar’s. “Because, no matter what – the show must go on.”

He’s not really talking about the narrative here, any more. I mean, he is. But mostly he’s talking to himself. Chin up, Scar. Mask affixed. Don’t let them see you hurting.

#scarian #lifeshipping #dlshipping #fic #directors cut #life smp tag #life smp fic #an commenter asked for this AGES ago but finally it is done...

[ellethespaceunicorn]

Director's cut ask... 👉👈

Did you ever consider a different ending for 'make that kitty purr'?

I cut down Make That Kitty Purr extensively. It was originally much darker and very sinister.

But, if anyone is interested, I would love to revisit this story and present it longer, thicker, and uncut (😈). I do have to rewrite it though. So, maybe by the end of the weekend, we can have:

#ask reply #writer ask game #make that kitty purr #make that kitty purr: director's cut #august walker #august walker x reader #august walker fanfic #august walker fanfiction #henry cavill fanfic #henry cavill fanfiction #august walker fic #henry cavill #mike (hellraiser) x reader #mikey hellraiser #mike hellraiser fanfiction #mike (hellraiser) #hellraiser mike #mike hellraiser #ellethespaceunicorn fanfic #ellethespaceunicorn fanfic teaser #henry cavill characters #mike hellraiser fic #hellraiser hellworld #mission: impossible fallout #mission impossible: fallout #mission: impossible fallout #mission impossible fallout #crossover au

[moonlightandmarble]

Give Me The Night-Theatrical Release

When Sleep tires of Vessel and all seems lost, an even more ancient being is called to intercede...

(I haven't written anything like this in years so please be gentle and if you need something tagged please let me know. This is about the lore characters because RPF is weird and uh yeah idk pleaseenjoybye)

Vessel watched as Two scratched figures into the sand with a piece of driftwood that had washed ashore. He had been extra quiet as of late, and it had not gone unnoticed by the others. Here, in the pocket between worlds that existed outside of time and reality, it was all the more apparent. It was if he was waiting for something, and yet when questioned he replied he was fine. 

And for all other appearances he was, he was still constantly inhaling caffeine, still contributing to the Great Work, still occasionally slipping into old vernaculars from before he became the Second Vessel. They all tended to do that, all of the Vessels. They all came from different places in time, and as Sleep selected them throughout the eons they came together to make the Great Work. None would remember what they were before, but fragments of the past would reveal themselves as time went on. And lately, more of those fragments were coming forward, representing themselves in the addition of colors and cloth, flashes of individuality. And in some cases…the smallest sparks of rebellion.

  All of these things troubled him, all the more because he was seeing it in himself as well. Something was happening to all of them. And it did not help that Sleep had become more and more withdrawn from him. His Presence even in the First’s mind far less frequent. He both hated his absence and reveled in it. The loneliness could drive him to dash out onto the beach in despair, throwing himself into the waves and crying out for an answer that would never come. But the others, they were always there to pull him out, to pull him back from the brink and surround him. Their presence was less overwhelming, more gentle, and Vessel the First had grown to be so grateful for them. 

 So he found himself smiling as he watched the Second, not even realizing the Third had sat down next to him until a warm cup of tea had been placed into his hands,

“You’re doing that thing again”

  “What thing?”, he turned the teacup in his hands, watching the steam rise up and humming as he felt the heat sink into his skin.

“You’re doing some Deep Thinking. Drink your tea. You need it.”

He wanted to argue but the Third always spoke his mind, and most of the time he was insufferably right about things. So he sighed and sipped, “Thank you”

The Third crossed his long legs in front of him, leaning back on his elbows, “So no return call on the God Phone then?”

Vessel swallowed and grimaced. The tea was excellent, but the words planted a bitter pill that stuck in his throat, “No. He does not answer. Even after all the Rituals, after all we put into the Great Work-“, he stopped himself. He was being ungrateful, childish, dancing too close to heresy. He shouldn’t speak in such a way about the one who had done so much for them. Who had changed them, brought them up and remolded them from the dust they once were. 

He took another sip, “I’m sure he has his reasons”

      Three made a quiet “hmmm”, the one that Vessel knew was a noise of doubt. The one the Third used when he knew Vessel was making excuses. Before he could respond though, The Fourth had sat down on the other side of him, seemingly contemplating the waves, before nodding his head towards Two, “He’s still at it with the strange sigils again then?”

Three looked over, Two having his back to them, apparently so engrossed in what he was doing he didn’t even notice them watching him, “Every day now. I asked if he wanted anything and he said he was fine with his usual sugar water.”

Four pulled his legs up and sat his chin on them, contemplative, “What you make of it?”

Three shrugged, “Can’t force him to tell us really. But maybe the Rituals are wearing him out? We were traveling for a long time for the last one. He doesn’t seem to be in any distress at least.”

Vessel looked on, silently finishing his tea and setting it aside when he felt a familiar prickle at the back of his neck. He straightened up, getting to his feet, and looking at the sky above, “He is coming…”

They all scrambled to their feet, all except for Two, who was still busy scratching the mystery symbols into the sand with all the intensity of a university student at exam time. Before Vessel could call to him though, Sleep manifested himself before them, hovering between the ocean and the sky. 

The six eyes Sleep had given Vessel allowed him to see things that others could not. Things hidden behind the vestiges of the material world, things both beautiful and grotesque, all uncanny. But even he couldn’t fully comprehend Sleep’s appearance. Multiple eyes in multiple colors blinked and stared, vanished and reappeared against an ever changing background. Sometimes he was as a black cloud, sometimes he was a school of fish, sometimes he was a great and prehistoric sea beast, sometimes he was a wholly alien mass of tendrils and snapping squid beaks, but always with the look of detached curiosity in his many eyes as he watched them.

As Vessel knelt Sleep’s voice pressed into his mind, and he felt the examination begin. Like hundreds of tendrils poking into his brain and turning it over and over, looking for any small flaw or hidden treasure to be pulled out and dissected and studied. 

The Voice began, in a monotone made up of a thousand voices, “You guard your thoughts from me, why?”

“If I am, it is not intentional I assure you.”

“This is not the first time, my Vessel. It speaks to a pattern that I find unacceptable”, the pressure in his mind intensified, making him wince in pain. He grit his teeth but spread out his hands, an attempt to placate, “Please, I am still yours. I am still faithful.”

“And yet you Keep Secrets.”

 The probing got even worse, and he doubled over in agony, grasping at the sand as the pain blinded him with white hot light, choking out a plea, “What have I done to offend you? Please!”, he felt the hands of Three and Four on him, trying to soothe as tears began to form. He tried to shoo them away from him, his hands shaking. But they helped ease him back up, holding him steady between them.

“But you cannot hide anything from me, my servant. Your mind has been wandering, your attention strays, you seek that which is forbidden to you. The seeds of Doubt have been planted, and now that which sprouted roots in you must be removed.”

He lifted his head, staring wide eyed, “I don’t understand, what are you saying?”

“The other vessels are no longer necessary. They have served their purpose, and now they lead you astray from me. Their time has ended.”

Vessel's heart thudded, and he felt his blood go cold, “Please no…no no no no don’t take them from me please. We have done so much together for you and we aren’t finished-“

“It has been decided. Do not try my patience.”

Vessel’s mouth opened, as he silently tried to grasp for words. This was a nightmare, it couldn’t be happening, and yet he could see in Sleep’s eyes that this was his final decision, yet still he couldn’t allow this to happen.

“But have they not also served you well? Have I not served you well? I will do anything, anything just please…not this…punish me instead I beg you. I will accept it with a smile on my face. I won’t complain, I won’t bother you for answers, just…please. Not them…”

“They are distracting you. Do you not comprehend that none will love you as I do? What have I done to receive this spitefulness from you?”

White hot anger boiled up from within him. How could he? Was it not enough that he had bled and been broken over and over and over again to Sleep’s whims? Had he not sacrificed? Had he not given him EVERYTHING? When would it all be enough?

 “They’re my friends…no they are more than that, you can’t do this. Tell me to tear my own heart instead and I will! You cannot demand this of me!”

There was a moment of silence, before the ground began to rumble, the sky turning to blood and the waves to ink. The others scrambled to find each other, huddling next to the First.

Vessel had seen Sleep enraged before. And he was often on the receiving end of it, but he had not seen Wrath such as this before. Every part of him was begging him to throw himself down and plead for mercy, and yet…

He looked over at the others, and saw that as much as they shook as he did, they still stood beside him. Willing to face the punishment of an angry god while still on their feet. So he looked once again upon the face of his savior, his persecutor, and stepped forward to receive whatever would be doled out. 

“I…**I CAN’T**? You Forget your place so easily, I can do as I will. And you are ungrateful, you show no piety, you DOUBT me. I MADE you what you are now! I raised you from the dirt in which you fell pleading for an end to your mortal pain, your trifling qualms, and I raised you to be like a god compared to humanity. And you spit in my face, as a scurrilous viper!”

The Third muttered to the Fourth, “I really wish he’d just kill us and get on with it already.”

The Fourth managed a chuckle, “Whatever happens, I am glad to have met you”, he grabbed the Third’s hand, which seemed to help steady them both for what was to come. 

Before Vessel could respond, Sleep's tendrils were upon him. He knew there was no point in fighting, but he grasped and pulled at them anyways, his hands uselessly sinking into squishy boneless ropes that were as resilient as steel. They wrapped around his body, yanking him off the ground. There was none of the gentleness with which he was first lifted up, he was merely a toy in the hands of a giant angry child. 

The others tried to hold onto him, to keep him there with them, wrapping their arms around his legs and clutching onto his clothing so hard that his robe began to rip, and the Fourth called out, “We can’t, he’s too strong, Vessel will tear apart!”

“Assuming Sleep isn’t just going to do that anyways! Just keep hold of him!”, the Third had a leg and a hold on his belt. A stray thought flitted by hoping that he wouldn’t die without his pants on. He called out to them, “Just let me go, flee and save yourselves!”

It didn’t matter anyways, Sleep made a tug and effortlessly pulled him away from the others, a tendril wrapping around his throat tight like a steel band, more wrapping around his ribs with crushing strength, and with every panicked breath out they only got tighter. He couldn’t even cry out, the tendril around his throat painfully tightening around his windpipe like a noose. He tried to calm down, to remember his breath control, to keep his panic from leading more quickly to his demise. But already he was fading, his heart thudding like ii’s drums in his chest as a gray mist crept into the sides of his vision. All six eyes blinked in an effort to stay awake, but as he looked up into the blazing red eyes of Sleep he knew there would be no return.

But there was a deafening crack, like lightning striking the sea, making  his ears ring, and it echoed throughout the bleeding sky. The tendrils loosened their grip ever so slightly, and it was enough for him to turn his head back to the beach where he saw the Third and the Fourth staring at the Second.

He was at the head of the beach, glaring up at Sleep, eyes blazing with fury and a inner light Vessel had not seen before. His palms held together in front of him, as if he were in mid-clap.

A voice like thunder echoed out from nowhere, vibrating his very teeth with how it boomed throughout the bubble, “Go then back to the Void where you belong, but you will not be taking them. They are no longer yours.”

Vessel was released suddenly, and he crashed onto the beach in a heap. His body was broken, he could feel that much. Pain screamed from all of his nerves like alarm bells. He stared up at the sky, at his deity, as he withdrew and faded as suddenly as he had arrived, without so much as a whisper. The blood turned back to azure, and the ink to lapis. 

He sighed, or tried to, managing only a choked wheeze as the darkness crept in, for the last time ever. And yet he tried to keep his eyes open, hearing the others running along with the waves gently lapping.  It was too late, but they were free. And the last thing he saw were the faces of the others staring wide eyed and frightened as they tried to bring him back to them. 

He thought in his final moments, that he had heard Two’s voice, 

“Help him.”

He gasped and coughed, holding his throat as he sat up. The tendrils were gone, and he took in a deep breath, filling his lungs in relief. It was only after he took several breaths that he looked around himself, finding that he was no longer on the sand but instead on a bed of soft moss and grass. He was in a clearing surrounded by ancient trees, the crowns of which formed an almost perfect circle that let him look up into the clearest night sky he had ever seen. Stars so numerous they resembled the lights of a great city glowed in white, red, yellow, and blue, and were cast against the glowing ribbon of a galaxy. 

Truly, it was a breathtaking sight. But there was something not quite right. The stars weren’t ones he recognized.

A low smoky voice broke his immersion, “Don’t be afraid”.

He turned slowly, cautious, his tall frame slightly hunched. But he paused when he saw her, straightening up and tipping his head, all six eyes focused.

A woman. Tall. Surprisingly tall. Taller even than he. Her skin was like the deepest obsidian flecked with stars, like she was a reflection of the sky above. Horns in the shape of a lyre arched from thick, wavy hair that cascaded down her shoulders. She wore a plain black peplos, which made her skin stand out all the more. Her eyes were of amethyst, and he could see no hint of malice in them. But with his sight he could see behind her a hazy reflection of her true self, a queen of stature winged and radiating a barely restrained power that could only belong to someone on par with Sleep himself…and yet…something about her felt even older. 

He didn’t approach, but neither did he back away, standing his ground even as she started to walk around him, looking him over while he tried to study her at the same time.

“Do you speak?  Or are you perhaps too frightened to do so?”, she said with a slight curve to her lips.

He paused from trying to follow her with his head. Was she teasing him? Who, or what, was she? What did she want with him? Every part of him was tensed, awaiting an attack or some other sort of nonsense. Because what else could possibly happen? The worst possible thing had already occurred so what else could go wrong?

Fuck it, he decided, and then threw his thoughts out onto the wind,

“I am not afraid”

This was a lie.

“I speak when there is something important to say”

This was not a lie. But something Sleep had taught him. Sleep did not speak with a mouth, finding it to be more befitting of mortals while he projected his thought forms. He had no need to speak otherwise. And why should he? He had Vessel to be his Voice, the one to relay his message to the others. 

“Were the Voice. You were The Voice”, a thought at the back of his mind oh so helpfully reminded him. 

He sighed. 

She plucked at his robe, which he now realized was whole and dry again. Not even a wrinkle to be found. Indeed, it was as if everything he was wearing was new again, and he reached up to feel for his mask.

It was still there, and still as attached as ever to him. And it was then he noticed her reaching out towards it.

He flinched away from her hand, recoiling like a rattlesnake without even thinking, teeth bared and body tense as a bowstring. And almost as suddenly as it happened a wave of shame hit him, and he looked away as he swallowed down the ball of dry bitterness that had formed in his throat. 

Her voice was low and gentle, “It doesn’t come off, does it? You have tried before.”

His jaw clenched. He had tried many times in fact. And with each attempt it just seemed to become even more a part of him. The first time, it felt like it would take his skin off with it, and now, well it _was_ his skin. “It…hurts.” He covered his face with his hands. He was human, once. And that was all he knew since he had first put the mask on. But whoever he was before had been erased. He had no idea how old he was, how long Sleep had him as a servant, how many times he had died and come back and died again. Now he was…just this. An empty vessel. And he was overwhelmed with that feeling of emptiness, Sleep’s presence utterly gone from him. He crumpled down to his knees, his head touching the moss like he was a supplicant. 

She knelt down beside him, her hands clasped in her lap, “Are you in pain?”

“I failed Sleep, but worse, I failed them.”

“You sound so certain when you say that. What makes you believe you failed?”

“I should have been stronger, I should have protected them, I should have been more obedient. Then none of this would have happened.”

“But you survived, as did they.”

He thought for a moment, sitting back up again to look at her, “They’re safe?”

She nodded, “They are. And so are you”, she tipped her head again, in a way that vaguely reminded him of an owl, “Can you feel anything while it’s on?”

     “What…do you mean?”

“If you were to face the sky while it was raining, would you feel the drops fall upon you?”

He paused to think on it. When was the last time he felt anything on his face? As much as the mask had become a part of him, did he ever feel the touch of the wind or the rain? Did he feel his own tears burning a trail down his cheeks? He couldn’t remember.

“I…”

“May I?”, she put her hand out, palm upright. Her nails formed short points, but still, there was something about her that felt familiar, that felt safe. As much as his mind was shouting at him that this was all some sort of trick, he decided to take the chance. 

He stared at her, then her hand, then her again, swallowed hard, and then gave a short nod.

She reached out towards his face slowly, making a low soft noise as if she was trying to gentle a wild horse. This time he didn’t flinch or shrink back, keeping still as she gingerly touched the cheek of his mask. Her eyes met his as she began to feel along the filigree-like edge that outlined his jaw, and he gave another tiny nod. She continued to feel along it, like she was memorizing its shape with her fingertips, but she stayed slow and gentle with her movements, especially when she got to the little points that poked past his chin. She went to his forehead next, and tapped a nail on the material, receiving a dull sound in response.

She made a sad sigh, “I cannot remove it, but I can help you another way”

He went to speak but as she once again caressed a fingertip along his cheek he made a soft gasp. He could feel her hand. It was warm, the pad of her finger soft and with just the slightest trace of her nail grazing him. She smiled wide as she watched his reaction, “There you are”. His breath caught in his throat at the peek of fangs behind her lips, visions of blood in the water and the grip of teeth burying in his flesh flickering in from the past in his mind. He blinked those thoughts away, forcing himself to focus on how oddly…tender she was while touching him. The way she looked at him. Not like he was a subject to be examined and flayed open down to his core so that his every memory and thought and failing was exposed to the salt air but, like how the others looked at him. With fondness. Softness. 

“You’re not used to a gentle touch are you? I think you need more of that in your life.”

“Why?”

She gave him a sad look. Though he did not understand why.

“You don’t think you deserve that?”

“I’m…it’s not about deserving-I-just…” 

But it was. He knew it was. But overpowering the fear and despair there was a deep and aching Want.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No!”, he nearly yelled it but managed to just barely get a hold of himself, ‘…I want you to keep going, please.” He reached up a shaky hand, covering hers with his own as she cupped his cheek,  “please.”

She grinned again, her fangs almost glowing white against her dark skin. And for a moment he wondered what it would be like to feel them piercing the flesh of his neck, the blood dripping from him like rubies. He felt himself get warm at the thought, but kept quiet, watching her raise her other hand slowly to touch his other cheek. He couldn’t help it, he closed his eyes, feeling such softness soothing his nerves, the heat of her palms sinking into him bone-deep. The tenseness began to drop from his shoulders as her thumbs stroked under his eyes, and he realized when she swept away wetness that he had been crying. 

“Who are you?”, he said it as a plea, desperate to know and no longer bothering with the pretense that he really had any way to fight her off. Not that he wanted to anyways. Her touch awakened something in him, a need so great he would die, he would kill, he would do anything to have it recognized. 

She gave a soft and affectionate sort of smile as she kept petting his face, “You still don’t recognize me? Even after you had called to me so long ago…”

      “I called to you?” 

She got closer, her face mere inches from his, and sang in her smoky voice, near his ear in close to a whisper, “So give me the night, the night, the night…”. She traced a finger over his lower lip, “But even before then, I was listening. When you sought comfort in the darkness, when you looked to the sky and prayed to anyone who would listen, when you sought inspiration in the stars…I heard you.”

“But who-“

“Think a little longer, and you will know my name”

He blinked, his voice shaking as he spoke, “The Greeks called you Nyx…”

She laughed in soft delight, “And some called me Nótt, some called me Ītzpāpālōtl, some called me Nephthys and on and on and on…”

“Are you…like Sleep? You don’t feel the same.”

“Existence is vast. There are things even older than Sleep. Older than bones and mountains and even the stars themselves. No. We are not the same.” 

“But how-“, it clicked just as soon as he was about to ask. The symbols that Two etched into the sand. An ancient language even the gods had forgotten. Primordial sigils of protection that just so happened to look like messy doodles of stars and planets. Two had been calling to her, summoning her, whichever the case, he was the one who had brought her forth. And so it was her-, “You were the one on the beach, the one who sent Sleep away”

“Yes. That was me”, she sat back, taking one of his hands in hers, tracing the lines in his palm with her fingertip, “When Sleep claimed you initially, Two was there with you. But while he didn’t worry for himself, he worried for you. He made sure to keep his research hidden, but he’s very dedicated when he sets his mind to something, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

He nodded, nearly vibrating with Wanting to Know All but allowing her to continue

“And so when he first spoke to me I immediately answered. We made a plan, for Sleep has tossed aside many of his playthings, and the world is littered with those broken by him. I couldn’t stop Sleep entirely by myself, and he couldn’t either, so we made a pact. He would be my vessel. But not in the same way Sleep had you.”

“I never had any idea…”. 

Playthings. That really was how he saw them. And he was just one of many. For as much as Sleep had praised him in the beginning, building up his confidence and faith, it was all just to serve and end. An end which would have shattered him utterly. But somehow Two knew. Two had the foresight that he didn’t. 

“Nor would you. That was intentional. We couldn’t have Sleep’s favorite noticing anything strange was happening. At least not until we knew that Sleep was going to do for certain. When he stopped responding to you, we knew it was time.”

“Did the others know?”

“They suspected something was afoot, and knew more than they led on. But did they know exactly what was happening, and that I was there? No. As much as it pained Two to keep things from you all, it was necessary so that you would have a way out from all of this.”

He placed his head in his hands, “I am such an idiot…why didn’t I realize it would happen. Why did I stay? Why when all the signs were there that we were just puppets in his hands?”

She put a single fingertip under his chin, tilting his head to look up at her, “Your whole life you have wandered the desert in search of sweet rain and your prayers only returned bitter waters. In you there is much pain yes…but oh there is so much love. It’s not your fault that there are those who are drawn to your love only because they wish to use it. Who seek out those who have suffered and are so desperate for any love, any show of kindness, that they lay their traps for you”, she looked at him with soft eyes, and he felt his heart thump faster, “But you knew, deep down you knew you deserved better because you knew already that they deserved better. You just hadn’t made the connection yet. And when you did, you all stood together. In the face of wrath. It was not me that saved you in the end, you saved yourself. You saved them. And that was the key to bring me forth.”

She leaned forward, just to gently kiss his forehead, holding his face between her hands while his tears made trails down his face. He met her eyes anyways, and saw himself reflected in them, “You are not alone. And you are loved. The other vessels love you, and I have loved you for so very very long.”

A little vibration went up his back, a long distant memory. A soft whisper when he felt at his worst, like a breeze that slid over his skin. Words he could not hear but somehow…he didn’t feel quite so alone as he hunched over the keyboard. A heady scent coming from the window…

“I…don’t know what I can give you. I know only to worship…”

“Just be you, and let your love out. Show it to the others. I ask for your heart, but only when you are ready to give it willingly”, she nuzzled his cheek, and he was taken aback by how soft she felt, “I see your pain, and I will carry that burden with you if you wish, when you are ready.”

But it was with a heavy sob, one he could no longer hold back, that he pressed into her arms, clinging to her like a frightened child as all the pain and the grief over wanting so badly to be loved only to be tossed aside poured out of him. He had stuffed it away for so long, several lifetimes worth of trying so hard to mold himself to the expectations of others in the hopes of just a little kindness, and now the dam had finally broken. He heaved shuddering sobs as he crumpled, feeling her hugging his head, one of her delicate hands stroking his back as he grieved his past selves. 

As he finally caught some of his breath back, he loosened his grip slightly, sitting up slowly,

“I apologize.”

“For what?”

“I’m…not entirely sure to be honest.”

“You’re used to apologizing for everything aren’t you?”, she hummed and then booped the end of his nose, “That’s another habit we’ll have to break you out of”.

He felt the spot that she just touched, bemused, “So what happens now?”, he peered around the clearing again, “Is this your home?”

“It’s my Garden. A world between worlds like your beach”, she extended her hand, a luna moth flitting through the trees to land on her knuckles, he watched as she stroked  its wings, ever so gently, “What happens next is up to you. But Two doesn’t need me to hide within him any longer. He should be having a nice nap right now.”

Vessel let out a soft chuckle, “Were you the reason he was imbibing so much red bull?”

She made a face, “Oh no no, if anything I suggested he switch to using a French press but he refused”, she shook her head, but she was smiling, and he couldn’t help but notice that even in the low light of the clearing she seemed to have an inner glow. She took his hand, letting the moth crawl into his palm. As he watched it explore his fingers he asked, “Do you have worshipers?”

“No, at least not in the way most gods do. I do not have a need to be worshiped. My sustenance comes from those who revel and rejoice in the night. That is enough.”

The moth, seemingly satisfied with its explorations, flitted off into the darkness, “Would you want one?”

She hugged her knees to herself as she met his gaze, the corners of her mouth turned up, “Are you asking if I want one, or are you asking permission to worship me?”

He looked back to his empty hands, thinking. He couldn’t remember the last time he had much of a choice in anything. Let alone something like…this. 

She bumped her shoulder softly into him, “Or are you asking for something else?”

He swallowed, feeling the warmth radiate from her and how soft she felt just from the touches she gave him. He wanted…more, “I’m…honestly…wondering what you taste like…”

She shifted, and for a moment he had the frightened thought that he had made her angry, but instead she had turned to look at him, touching his jaw so he would look back at her, “You’re welcome to find out, taste and touch as much as you like”, she nuzzled his cheek, running a finger over his lower lip and playfully whispering, against his ear, “I promise I won’t bite you”.

The corners of his mouth twitched up, “… and what if I-want-you to bite me?”

She laughed, and the sound made his smile go wide. “And what else would you want?”, she slid behind him, sliding her arms around his neck, so she was pressed fully against him, and he found himself giving a little shiver as her breath warmed his skin, the fragrance of night blooming jasmine on her skin, “Would you make me yours?”

“Is that what you really want? You know it would be completely unlike Sleep...”

“I know, that’s why I want it”, he reached up, slowly, to touch her hand, a reassurance, “Control is not what you desire. You wish for something else from me.”

He could feel her breathing against his back, “Only your heart, freely given. Your mind, your friends, everything else is yours alone.”

“Then make me yours, and be mine?”

“Gladly~”

He woke up. The morning light was gray as it crept over the horizon. The ocean's waves calm in the background. He slowly sat up, and he felt a wave of grief wash over him. No. It couldn’t have been a dream. Could it? Another punishment by Sleep? To give him a dream so real only to take it all away at the end wasn’t beyond him. And it wouldn’t be the first time, but to make this would be beyond cruelty. No. He wanted to scream, to howl curses at the sky and the waters and at existence itself. 

 He scrambled to his feet, and sucked in a breath at the sudden ache in his neck, and as he reached up he gingerly stroked over the bite mark that formed a perfect crescent there. The one bite he wouldn’t let her heal. And he realized he could still taste her on his tongue, his back stinging slightly from when her nails raked down his skin, the fingers of her other hand twined with his in the soft moss. 

He huffed a soft laugh, closing his eyes as he turned inward, seeking out her resting place. 

“Are you still there?”, he said in a whisper, his own heartbeat and breathing the only response as he searched his own mind. No. That was wrong. She told him his thoughts would be his own did she not? So why would she take up residence there? No, no. Her throne was elsewhere. And then he felt it, just the slightest stirring, a tiny shift in movement while in a deep sleep. There. Coiled around his heart protectively, she rested quietly. He pressed his hand over his heart, but a distant shout made his eyes open again. He turned, finding Three, Four, and Two running towards him. He was about to speak when he was full on tackled by Three, falling back with a grunt and immediately barraged with questions,

“WE THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD FOR GOOD”

“WHERE DID YOU GO?”

“TWO HAS BEEN SLEEPING FOR HOURS”

“ARE YOU HURT YOU’RE GRIMACING”

“That’s because when you threw yourself at him he landed on a piece of driftwood you tit”, Four was laughing but mercifully helped Vessel back up into sitting position, settling into the sand next to him, “You alright then?”

“I think so”, he found the piece of broken driftwood behind him and tossed it aside, “What did I miss?”

“We thought you were dying and then you just…vanished.”

“We’ve seen you die before but, not like this”

  “And you always come back but-“, they exchanged looks and then Four gestured with his head to Two,  who had plonked himself down opposite of Vessel, a beatific glint in his eyes. “He kept saying you’d be back, before passing right out.”

Vessel huffed a laugh, “No wonder, he had been keeping a pretty heavy secret under wraps for a long time”, but he reached out and took Two’s hands in his, before kissing them like he was royalty, “Thank you. You saved all of us.”

Two shrugged, “Well I couldn’t very well lose all of you could I? Besides-“, he flung his arms around Vessel, tackling him back into the sand, causing him to make a grunt that was less substantial that the one Three had him make but still one that he knew he would be feeling later, “We have so much more to do and to see!”

The other two had the temerity to flop down on him as well, so he was fully trapped, “Am I EVER going to be allowed to get back up?”

Four rested his head against Vessel’s chest, “You’re going to have to get used to this. You’re stuck with us I’m afraid.”

Three rumbled on the other side, “Maybe in an hour or so we’ll let you up for tea. But only that. And to tell us where the hell you’ve been off to disappearing without leaving a note and all”

“You came back just in time, look, the sun is rising”, Two pointed towards the horizon, and Vessel was just only able to lift his head to look, 

“So it is…but I wonder what the night will bring.”

#sleep token #no directors cut for tumblr sorry #only for friends #because Reasons #thank you teka and zai for the encouragement #Sleep is a big meanie in this one #Vessel #II #III #IV #I JUST REALLY WANT VESSEL TO HAVE A HAPPILY EVER AFTER YANNO? #sleep token fic #SleepToken #vessel sleep token #Sleep Token band #mywriting #sleep token fanfiction #Full version of ao3

[scarletsongramble]

He's there in the cicadas in summer...

...and when the buzzing and hums remind her of a memory of roughened hands upon her hip. She's caught in a hot breeze with the sun in her face and the wind tunneled in by the tall built streets upon the eaves. The swift but gentle scratch of well-manicured nails as he tucks back the grey black curl at the side of her face because wants the excuse to touch it, touch her and be by blinded by the act of just being at her side.

If only. But in a month they will roar and row and hurt because they fear for what they've lost what they could loose because they ....

...they are the monster...

and they would never want to loose the other in that fearful pride and be broken again...

#quick fic #candela obscura #circle of tide and bone #elsie roberts #rajan savarimuthu #rajan/elsie #I live for the what could bees #directors cut of the back story please #critical role fanfiction #rajan x elsie

[charmslibrary]

Congrats on finishing CMBN and Incoming! Truly some of my favorite fics this year!

I don’t want to be too spoilery in my ask in case people haven’t read….but in the epilogue of Incoming, James has news and Lily has news….do you foresee how the order of these events play out over the next year or so? Any headcanons or details around that?

CMBN Universe ~ The Director’s Cut

I do have a couple of thoughts around that time period! So I will hide spoilery things below the cut.

First Re: James news

I don’t see them in any rush to tie the knot. They have a longer engagement so that toddler Harry can have an active role in their ceremony walking down the aisle with Lily and carry the rings.

It’s a small intimate backyard style wedding.

Fleamont does the Dad-Daughter dance with Lily.

In his best-man speech, Sirius says he knew James was gonna marry this girl the first night they met her in the pub because by the end of the night it felt like they had always been. Plus how much she keeps him on his toes.

Re Lily’s news:

I think this was the final push for them to move out from above The Stag because they knew they were gonna need space (and Lily was not gonna keep climbing up and down all those stairs!). The business is still James’ first baby but he does hire someone to be an opener so he doesn’t have to get up so early to commute in and can maintain a morning routine with Harry.

They pre-record a bulk of content for their Onlyfans to drop later down the line because they know it’s gonna need to take a hiatus… which includes a couple of guest appearances from Sirius 😅

Listening back to recordings Lily swears blind she can work out exactly when Harry started crushing her lungs because she sounds more breathless than usual.

They have a couple days alone with baby Harry following his birth. Then Effie moves in for a couple weeks just to help out around the house and let the two of them get some much needed sleep.

Their recording equipment suddenly gets a lot more use trying to capture every sound and attempt at a first word Harry makes. But it ends up being pure fluke that Marlene captures it on her phone instead during a visit.

#directors cut : call me by name universe #jily fic #james potter #lily evans

[eilinelsghost]

⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Once more continuing to gradually chip away at the Director's Cut asks! (And as before, still taking asks if you have any you'd like to send in—the more specific the better. 😊)

Today I am being the bravest little Frankie and making myself answer a star question. I have so many things I want to babble on and on about when I'm writing, but the moment someone asks me with free rein, I promptly forget every single one of those and can't think of anything at all to say. So uh here's hoping this makes sense!

(And apologies to all of you who sent in star questions—I promise I will eventually have answers for all of you!)

One thing that I've tried to be very intentional about throughout the series so far is how the "exes" (for lack of a better term) are portrayed. Ok no, I tried using "exes" and now I feel so desperately guilty because poor Esrid is not an ex. She is a dead. I'm so sorry, Esrid, I will never call you Balan's ex ever again.

Anyway.

Something that frustrates me in a lot of fiction (in general, not just in fanfiction) is the tendency to portray previous relationships as inferior to the one being featured in the story, as though in order for the featured one to be valid, anything before it had to be negative in comparison. Most often I've seen this done with women, though I'm sure it happens with men also.

So going into writing this series, I knew this was something I would need to be aware of with both Finrod and Balan, and I wanted to be very careful not to fall into that trope by accident. I'm not completely sure if I've achieved that goal or not, but I really hope so because I've become quite fond of both Amarië and Esrid in the process.

As part of this aim, I wanted to make both women full characters in their own rights, even while neither is around in the events of the series. Each nevertheless has a tangible presence in the narrative, both through Balan and Finrod's memories as well as through how each woman has shaped the way our main characters operate in relationship, both to each other and to the world around them.

Balan & Esrid

In Balan's case, I wanted to play a bit with the idea of it being a marriage of convenience, which could easily fall into the framework of "it wasn't about love." Balan occasionally tries to categorize it this way to himself as a coping mechanism, because he has never fully let himself mourn her loss. In Grief in All Her Guises, for example, he tells Finrod:

"In truth, I believe my wife’s death rent Estreth’s heart in many ways that never touched mine—to my lasting shame. Yet in times like these when memory is the most brutal, Estreth remains, not just in the encampment but alongside them, present and attending despite all of it. Whereas I…” Balan let out his breath in a rush of exasperation and clenched his fists to still the trembling.

He leads with this line about Estreth being rent in ways that he was not—yet throughout the entire scene that follows, his actions and relation to his wife's memory show the exact opposite: Estreth and he were both wrecked by Esrid's death, but while Estreth has acknowledged, mourned, and befriended her grief in some sense, Balan remains in denial and tries to mitigate the pain by a) closing off the memory and b) insisting to himself that he had less right to mourn, less love that could be injured. While the reality is that he loved her deeply—and he knows that, even while he tries to downplay it to ease the loss.

And in this, his pain is two-fold. First, and most obviously, it is the grief of her death, and the grief of seeing that loss through his sons' eyes as well. But secondly, it is the pain of believing his love was at least partially unrequited, which is a large part of why he often narrates it in a way that downplays his own devotion. He is very conscious of the reality that she married Geberic from love, and from a love deep enough that it was worth uprooting herself and her sister from all they knew in order to bring it to fruition. And then Balan led his people on the westward road, which brought them into the skirmish that killed her husband. “She never loved me the way she had Geberic, but the love that was there was enough," he tells Finrod, because he cannot shake the conviction that his love was never returned in kind—because he was not the one she had chosen, and because he was (at least indirectly) the cause of that loss, that he was a poor substitute offered in atonement and only accepted from need. But Esrid did love him, and loved him as fully as he loved her, which he is gradually able to see as he finally lets himself mourn her. A helpful summary for this, I think, is from Chapter 5 of Atanatárissë in Balan's closing letter to Belen:

I deemed myself broken through when thy mother was lost, and in many ways it was a true perception. But I forced her memory ever from me, afraid to touch it lest the break rend further and leave me insensate to thee and thy brother. Thus at the thought of her, I held my heart in ice, for fear of what should arise in the thawing. Yet my reticence faltered once and in that brief moment she rose beside me—a balm and not a sharp thing of shearing edges. And she has remained there ever since, steady through the tempests, my first love gone before me as I go now before those who remain, a loss abated not deeper delved.

However, the upshot of all of this is that Balan is consistently afraid of the strength of his own feelings, while also being convinced that in any relationship he will always be the one who loves more than the other, that love will never be fully reciprocated. This results both in how bold he can be re stating how things are (see the snowdrop sequence in A Heady Fragrance of Honey, the entire conversation between them in Vassal, literally all of A Shifting Mirage lol, the confession scene in In These Holy Waters, etc.), and also in how he immediately shifts into a defensive fear response whenever he suspects the not-fully-reciprocated situation with Finrod. Once again, see Vassal for a good example of this:

“I would give everything to thee, but not as a stray once smiled upon who ever after limps hopefully at thy heels; to be some brittle leaf, wind-tossed and in its delusion of flight thinking it might reach the sun."

And when Finrod hesitates in response to this, his immediate reaction is jump to defensiveness and anger:

“Yes is a simple enough word.” Balan’s face was etched with the fury of his grief. “Athon. Sá. Nai, even. But I see thee instead pondering how to explain without wounding me. No matter. It is the blow struck in silence that fells the swiftest. I take my leave.” He turned abruptly and walked back toward the village. 

And again in In These Holy Waters where he faces what he sees as Finrod's refusal to choose to love him, Balan's "words lashed from him like a blade, no longer caring where he struck so long as he could wound in return."

So throughout all of this, Esrid (or his love for her, his grief for her, his loss of her) operates as a consistent character throughout Balan and Finrod's relationship as well.

Finrod & Amarië

Likewise, it was important to me that Amarië was not just some idealized Beatrice-esque character who sat over the narrative like the lady of a courtly romance. I needed to believe that she was more than an archetype, and understand why Finrod specifically cared for her, in order to understand why he was operating in the insane-making way he is so far in the series.

(Agh. I've already gotten SO long-winded here, so I'll try to keep this one shorter than Balan's section.)

To start, it was a non-negotiable for me that he did genuinely care for her. I think there's a very clear reason for his indecision and hesitance referenced in A Heady Fragrance of Honey: specifically that he is operating in a context where he's constantly pulled between varying sets of expectations and thus orients himself toward those in order to keep peace; and as the oldest son in a branch of the royal line, he is expected to marry in a way that continues the line, so he does not consider that marrying a woman might not actually be what he wants. Nevertheless, I don't think that Finrod as a person could consider marrying someone—no matter how many expectations were in place around him—if he did not genuinely love them, at least to some degree.

So what is it about them that meshed together? For me, that came down to the same thing that lies at the foundation of his love for Balan: someone who can see past the veneer and name (and love) the person who exists behind the expectations he tries to fill. In the same sequence of A Heady Fragrance of Honey, the context is set as such:

Torn between his father’s expectation of distance and Tirion’s expectation of knowledge and poise, he mimicked first the one and then the other till each was pleased with his performance. He followed his cousin’s studies, learning swordsmanship alongside Turvo’s intrigue for the art and dance of it, he studied architecture, learned the planning of cities, mastered the dialogue and form of court. Then alone in the night he would read philosophy, he would slip out on quiet days to wander through the hills and greet the fauna and new growth, he would sing beside the streams and laugh as he watched children chase and play. Then he returned to Alqualondë and donned the old facade, taking up the mantle of his father’s mediation, the calm analysis of ethics and theology, and the light banter of Olwë’s court.

With Amarië, he is operating in that middle section—as the person he is when he's away from observation and expectation, reading philosophy alone in the dead of night:

[S]he had been a student of philosophy and he was drawn immediately to the conversations they shared, discussions and theoreticals that bored his cousin when he tried to engage him. But Amarië was versed in all of these and her mind sharp and eager, finding the same intrigue and challenge in these debates that drew him ever back to the study. It was not long before they sought each other out independently[.]

She enjoys the parts of him that others find tedious, she sees the things that intrigue him and names them (and consequently names him) as good. He sees in her someone who challenges him and is not afraid to debate and push back, and for whom that is in fact an embodiment of respect and affection, someone who operates from a consistent posture of openness and truth—and this draws him to her immediately. In short, she lays the groundwork for what Balan later builds. Having had that foundation, Finrod is able to see it for what it is when he realizes his feelings for Balan are far beyond friendship: he has the comfort, centerdness, and mutual respect he felt in Amarië's company, but now with all the certainty of affection he was lacking in Valinor.

But this also undergirds one of his primary fears re how he interacts with Balan. As he sees it, all that his love for Amarië gave in return was to leave her wounded and abandoned, which is one of his deepest regrets. He is terrified that he will do the same to Balan, that if he allows himself to love him, he will end up hurting him by default. That, similarly to Amarië, any love they have will end in an irrevocable parting that leaves both of them broken in its wake.

There's a whole lot more I could go on about re Finrod and all of this, but the length of this thing is getting out of control, so I think we'll call it a wrap here 😂

Thanks so much for the ask!

#asks and answers #director's cut #finrod #bëor #Amarië #my fic #atandil

[jamiesfootball]

⭐️⭐️ for anything you would like to share!!

OOOH! I have an answer for this one now, since you asked me about it in your comment (THANK YOU LOVE YOU MWAH!)

I have had a few people ask about the couch scene, specifically what fucking show Jamie was (poorly) explaining-

Community, season 2 episode 15, "Early 21st Century Romanticism" aka that one where Troy and Abed both ask out the librarian at the same time

Now I have a certain pet peeve when it comes to using pop culture references in media. If the only reaction it garners is 'look! they said the thing that I like!' then to me that's not a very good utilization of a shout out. References age, and they won't mean the same thing to people later.

But at the same time this is Ted Lasso, and Jamie was specifically trying to emulate a Lasso speech, which means references.

Starters for those who don't know- Community is a tv show. It's about a mish-mash group of students who joined a community college study group. While some of it has not aged well, much of it was made out of genuine nerdy love and it is absolutely dripping in sincerity and love.

(This is where Jamie's confused 'I think they knew they were in a tv show' is from- one of the characters in particular, Abed, is very meta, and frequently calls out the plot of the episode as if it were a tv show.)

One of the main plots of the episode I'm referencing is this: Troy and Abed, the best-friendiest best friends to ever best friend, have come to the conclusion that they are both interested in the same librarian. Wanting to side-step the common tv problem of two guys fighting over the same girl, they decided to circumvent the issue by both of them asking her out to a Valentine's day dance. Together. Like they ask her, at the same time, if she will go with both of them.

Which brings me to the how / why I chose it: because I did not like how this part played out in the finale. In the finale, Roy and Jamie going to Keeley's felt like a last-minute wrap-up, an 'oh shoot we forgot to deal with that.'

So when I set out trying to fix things, one of the first things I asked myself was 'what's a time where I've seen this sort of plot line work for me?'

Answer: this Community episode

That was my starting point. There were more things I knew I wanted. For starters, I wanted Keeley to actually have time to voice her opinion on having both of them spring that on her like that (that scene is in a later chapter.) But another thing I knew I wanted was for them to talk about it. Part of the making-it-make-sense to me wasn't just in figuring out how the fight happened, but also dealing with the aftermath of it all. I wanted them to talk about it, and I wanted them to get some closure on it.

I saw someone on here mention that Roy and Jamie have a pattern of initial disagreement -> jump to fighting about it -> admit guilt -> talk about what was actually wrong that started the fight. The whole couch scene is really those last two parts.

But with everything so raw and Keeley already admittedly a touchy subject, it felt like a topic that needed to be come at sideways. It made more sense that it would be Jamie brave enough to broach the topic- not only because of Roy being in a more intense place about it, but also because well...I think after Amsterdam Jamie's become a little more emotionally in-tuned to Roy. This is something else that I tried to weave in, that Jamie knows what Roy is like, and yeah Roy can be a dick, but he is rarely a dick without purpose. Sometimes that purpose is fun, but this was not fun.

Jamie is kind of a mess, our boy, so with Ted's most recent Ted-Talk fresh in his head, the idea of having him try to give Roy a Lasso Speech weaved itself in easy.

From there it was a matter of gathering the strings: the reference I already knew I wanted to use, and the framework to talk about it. This was actually the first part of the couch scene that I wrote. Though the initial draft was in short-hand, the core of the Lasso Speech was always the same: Jamie wandering his way towards softly admitting that a part of him was glad Keeley didn't choose between them.

Back to my earlier point about references, I had some guidelines going in for how to shape it:

Enjoyable by all. It had to be vague enough that someone unfamiliar with Community could still enjoy it, while being specific enough that it'd still feel meaningful. Because that's what I wanted the experience to feel like from Roy's point of view. He's never seen this show, he has no connection to it, so the meaning must be found in how the story is delivered.

Memory blur. Some situations call for a character to have very clear recall of an event or story. While Beard and Ted may have excellent pop culture recall, it made more sense if Jamie's was spotty (the frog in a hat bit is actually NOT from the episode he is talking about, it is from a different episode that happens to be near another dance). Plus given the age he was when the show came out, it made more sense if this is something he didn't necessarily seek out but instead passively absorbed.

Authentic. In addition to Jamie's spotty memory of the story he is telling, the fact of the matter is he is copying the style and structure of someone else, and he's filling in the gaps as best he understands them. He doesn't understand why Ted includes all these little details, but he knows that Ted includes them, and the result as Roy says is....endearing. Jamie is trying, and that's worth a lot, even if all Roy hears is straight up nonsense.

This brings the shape in a full circle for why I think the reference works. Because it's not about the reference at all. It's about Jamie telling the story. It's filler for the greater emotion at play.

It's not a perfect metaphor, but it doesn't need to be. That's not the point of a Lasso speech.

What actually happens in that episode is this: Troy and Abed ask the librarian out to a Valentines day dance. They tell her that they're best friends and they don't want anything to ruin that, so they'd like to give her the opportunity to date both of them at the same time so that she can then decide who she likes more.

Another fun tidbit- when the librarian agrees to the date, she calls them asking her out the most adorable thing to ever happen to her-

-which in itself is a subliminal clue for why Jamie at least thought his and Roy's dumb plan to go to Keeley's might work.

They go on the date.

She chooses Troy.

Abed excuses himself, as they agreed the loser would. Then, just like in Jamie's version of the story, Troy immediately has the realization that him winning means Abed lost.

The part that Jamie doesn't remember is that Troy spent the literal remainder of the date trying to figure out why she didn't pick Abed. Because to Troy, Abed is Abed. That's the person he spends all his time with. That's his best friend.

So why didn't she pick his best friend?

That's what Jamie's sublimated in the corners of Jamie's mind. Somewhere along the way, a dynamic shift happened, and Roy became another person whose well-being Jamie considers in the mix.

So that's the other thing about references: I think if you use them, they shouldn't alienate the audience, but they should also add something for anyone who does know it.

Jamie when pondering for a good parallel to their situation accidentally landed on the one of the two guys who were the best best friends to ever friend. Two characters who once famously, stubbornly, refused to end a pillow fight because the end of the pillow fight would symbolize the end of their friendship, so they planned to just keep hitting each other for hours to stave off the end.

So at the end of the night, there's Jamie. And yeah, he's kind of grateful that Keeley didn't pick either of them. Because what if she did? What if they had to live with that? That would hurt too.

#i'm not sure I explained this right #but I gave it a go and now I'm yeeting it into the shark pool #director's cut #ask game #fic: oh god you're gonna get it (you have not been given love) #may come back and edit later

[regicidal-defenestration]

He ran a finger quickly around the rim of his glass. The note rang out sharp and clear. "A toast," Jonny proposed. "To bad decisions and worse people."

Chapter the last. Death to the Mechanisms?

#writing #the mechanisms #DIRECTORS COMMENTARY EDITION i have not been annoying enough yet #so this fic first came into being september 2020 (a writing rate of about 7 words per day if we ignore how i left it until july 2023) in #mostly the same format. 5 possible deats then DTTM. but! we didn't have a narrator in the same way - it was loosly jonny but he didnt play #the same role carmilla does. this was boring and very samey and i did not get past chapter 1 #cut to mechtober 2022. i wrtie a thing abt time loops and jonny speaking to the narrator and the idea that the mechs have died For Good #before but told a story well enough to keep on going. this will be important later #late august 2023! the fic is taking shape and most things will stay the same in idea if not exact words EXCEPT carmilla does not call jonny #she watches him go in silence and just Hopes #now this is not satisying imo like youre saying she spent 5 chapters watching+narrating and now shes in the story she still does nothing? #so i changed it to what it is now Except. because pf the premise of this fic. i think she 'remembers' that early draft #like this version of her character is aware a prvious one did nothing and that partly influences her actions at the end #anyway. yeah. were gettign meta