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the-coffee-story · 3 years

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Rise of the Forest God

Chapter 17 - Professor Tally Winchester

Winchester Hall was a beautiful, dark Victorian mansion á lá Addams Family that rested proudly upon the tallest hill around. The windows, grey with age and dust were tall and skinny and a rusted iron gate, with weathered carvings now indistinguishable rested half swallowed by dirt and uncut blades of long dry grass. The whole thing blended rather well with the crawling forest behind it.

The team was waiting by the gate, curious and giddy with half-numbed nervousness.

"Well, now I'm definitely interested," Walther commented, peeking through the towering, rusted gate. "This looks like it's haunted by at least three ghosts who died a horrible death. They never found the heads."

October laughed.

"Seriously October, imagine the Addams Family's mansion, now scale it down a little."

He raised an eyebrow. "Can't wait for Morticia to pop out."

"Well, Morticia was definitely not on the phone," Violet noted.

Suddenly, the carved, dark-oak door that rested comfortably in the centre of the home's front opened, and a young man peeked out, adjusting his glasses as he took a moment to assess the situation. After a few moments passed, he noticed the team waiting by the gate, waved to wordlessly grab their attention, and quickly scuttled over.

Tally Winchester was a medium-heighted, slender and bald individual with large, wildly blue eyes behind thick glasses and a countless amount of scattered silver piercings dotted in and around his earlobe. Despite the fact that it was it had just dawned early spring, his skin was sunburnt and tanned, as if he spent most of his days somewhere lost outside. He walked with a noticable limp, and Walther didn't need to wait long for an explanation, when a prosthetic briefly appeared between his worn brown converse sneakers and faded jeans.

"Hi!" He flashed a toothy smiled at the group and opened the gate. "Great to see you, I'm Professor Tally Winchester!" He shook everyone's hands as they trickled past. The sleeves of his petrol flannel were rolled up, revealing a rather out-of-place, faded tattoo of a crawling lizard and a bunch of old scars. "You can call me Tally though."

Violet held out her hand. "Hi, I'm Violet, we talked on the phone."

"Great to meet you all!" He grinned. "Are you coming inside?"

***

"Before anyone asks, I inherited the house," Tally explained while leading them upstairs. "It's rotten and I hate it and the bills are a naked horror but I doubt I can find anything that has more capacities for a library." He opened a door. "Intrate, everyone."

"Remarkable," Doc commented.

Remarkable was indeed an understatemt. The room they'd entered was a library- with a beautiful brick fireplace and huge windows that let in the sparse afternoon sun, bookshelves brushed against the webbed ceiling and sunk into every wall. The floor was carpeted, through incredibly uncomfortable to walk on, and the furniture antique. One wall was plastered with photographs and notes.

"Nice," Walther mumbled, taking the second to once again soak in their surroundings.

Tally grinned, idly brushing aside pages and old notes compromised of incomprehensible scribbles and drawings. His teeth were somewhat crooked. "I didn't replace any of the furniture, but I did sell a chunk of the old books. There was just no space for mine." He closed the door behind them. "So anyway, you wanted to know about the cult?"

"There's been a bunch of murders in Forest Lane that were eerily similar to what it did, so yeah." Thasfield shrugged his broad shoulders. "We suspect the cult might be involved."

"Oh, I heard about that on the news!" Tally sorted the files on the table until he found what he was looking for. Then he looked up. His face was serious now. "At this point I'd like to admit I have a slightly selfish motivation in this."

"What is it?", Violet asked.

"You see..." Tally leaned against the table. "For context, I'm a history professor, but my focus is on cryptids and modern legends. Historical context, potential explanations, yada yada. A few years ago I stumbled across the legend of the Forest God."

Walther's face lit up. "Oh, I remember that story, my parents used to tell it to me when I was a kid! This one guy got lost in the woods, was found dead and after his funeral his reanimated corpse came home and his wife who loved him very, very much-" They side-eyed Violet and Coffee, who in turn glared back. "-couldn't accept that maybe it's not exactly normal that your husband's corpse is vibing around, then after a while he started killing people, then he killed her and then the neighbours buried him in an iron casket in the woods so he would stop randomly murdering people. Right?"

"You summed it up." Tally nodded.

"But who believes in that?!" Violet frowned. "I mean... it's just a legend, right? Somebody finally snapped, had a rough week or something, and people straight up believe his bullshit?"

"He came back from the dead and started murdering people, Violet," Doc commented.

She shrugged dismissively. "We've all been there."

"I don't want to meet you after a bad week," Tally remarked with mild discomfort, absentmindedly flipping through pages of notes and nonsense. "The existence of the man who allegedly became the Forest God is proven. His name was Eustace Wyndham and if you ask me he had rabies and some things were added for drama. But that's not even relevant, because the cult came almost a hundred years later." He slid around the table and opened another scattered file. "1969 they started to worship the Forest God. At first it was nothing special, you know, just the average college student nonsense." He held up an old photograph, subtle wonder in his eyes as he stared into it, before handing it to Walther. "Here, you can take a look at this! That's the entire cult. The guy in purple with the long hair is one of the founders. The other founder left in 1970 after getting a bad feeling about the whole thing. I caught him for an interview five years ago. Lovely guy, sadly died of cancer shortly after. It's a shame. You can pass the photo around! Notice how they're all wearing cow parsley wreaths. That was the flower associated with the Forest God and the flower scattered all over their murder victim's body, or rather what was left of it."

"All the victims had cow parsley in their mouth," Doc realized, dragging a hand up to rest in his soft ginger curls, staring blankly into the distance, thinking.

Tally nodded hastily. "Exactly! And now please look at what I found on my windowsill this morning!"

He limped over to the tallboy, half relying on the nearby furniture for support. Leaning down and throwing open a drawer, after a short while of sifting through papers and photographs, he took out something else. Then he held it up.

It was a wreath of cow parsley.

"That's....not good," Walther murmured after a long moment of stunned silence.

Tally nodded, twirling the flowers between his thumb and forefinger. "You get it. You know..." He leaned heavily against a dusty, worn table and heaved a small sigh. "When Wilhelm called me at first I was very sceptical of it all. I'm not a group project person, if you know what I mean. But this is just the tip of the ice berg and I have a feeling that I might be next, so I decided to work with you." He shrugged his shoulders.

While he'd been talking, Coffee had been furiously typing. He handed Tally his phone and Tally read it out loud.

" 'How about we use you as a bait?' Um... Can you...can you please explain what exactly you mean? That doesn't sound particularly safe-!"

He handed Coffee's phone back to him, paranoid he might accidentally drop it, and the detective started typing an answer, this time with significantly more determination.

Hear me out. So my idea was basically that tonight we let the killer come, but were going to be prepared. In other words, we gather a big group that's going to protect you, and we're going to arrest the murderer once he's here. What do you think?

Tally hesitated for a short moment and chewed his lip, opening his mouth to reply, then closing it again.. "I mean... I guess you have a point, sooner or later he's going to get me either way."

"I mean, let's be real, you can't run forever," Thasfield said, leaning forwards. "Even if you move, it's still going to take a while, and judging by what we know you're being pretty actively stalked, so it's quite possible he'll just follow you and then you'll be killed by a Forest God in a hotel room in Central Graytown. Which probably makes for an interesting plotline in a noir film, but we're talking real life here and I highly doubt you're so keen on landing in the morgue anytime soon. Although the Doctor is an expert at autopsies."

Doc smirked.

".........yeah," Tally admitted. He sat down on the table and scratched the back of his head. "Yeah, that sounds...icky but realistic." He closed his eyes took a deep breath. "Alright. Who's gonna be on this team?"

Doc's phone's rang loudly to shake up their newfound confidence, and he excused himself, stepping back into the dusty hallway to take the call.

"I mean, most of us for starters," Violet said. "But I was also thinking of grabbing Gary Fox and Wilhelm. Strength in number, you know?"

Doc eventually came back to the group. His weathered face was stricken with subtle anxiety. "Bad news."

"What is it?", Walther asked.

"Alice found her mailman by the stables."

Walther frowned. "Okay, and what's so special about that?"

"His left arm was by the stables. The rest of him was scattered across the field."

"Dear God, is he okay?"

"He's okay, but he's dead." Doc turned to Tally, lowering his voice just enough. "Can we settle on tonight?"

Tally nodded. His sunburnt face had notably paled, turning his skin a somewhat pasty yellow. "Sure. What time are y'all coming?"

"Is five o'clock alright with you?"

Tally shrugged his shoulders. "Sure."

#reviews are welcome ;)#remember to listen to the song #the coffee story #rise of the forest god

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queensdivas · 3 years

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Peonies Chapter 5

This took me a little longer than expected because school has me wrapped up in papers and research projects. Someone do this work for me so I can sleep since I haven’t slept well in nights!!!!!!

But anyway. This chapter was interesting to write and I hope that y’all enjoy!!!

Next Chapter

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Masterlist

Damn him. Damn him damn him! Grabbing the closest random vase to chuck it against the wall. Me! Sleeping with Peter? I would rather die in a pile of shit that had smallpox than sleep with that moron! It’s been a day and I still find those words making my stomach curl! Maybe another vase? Ah these this naked porcelain statue. Chucking it against the wall as it finally made me feel a little better.

How did I allow one man to have such control over my emotions! To flood my mind, body, and soul as if he is a flash flood in the valley! I don’t even..I’m going to drive myself into a pit of never ending darkness. That damn man with those...beautiful blue pools of his eyes that sparkle in the sunlight. I’ve never seen such beautiful eyes in my life. Those strong cheekbones that could cut someone with a knife.

FUCK!

Maybe write a letter..I imagine the family is missing me and I’ve only written two letters so far here. Father is probably worried that I’ve been converted to the Orthodox ways. (Well I’ve been breaking the laws of the catholic church but luckily these people are too busy with themselves). I sat down at my desk to begin thinking on how to send back a positive message when I’m dying on the inside.

Dear Father.

Remind me to never make allies with Russia if I ever become Queen of Italy. These people are uncultured, disgusting horny toads! It feels like I have walked into a brothel except they’re not a bunch of dirty poor people. Now it’s a vast amount of extremely broad people on the court.

I’m not asking for you to save me or come galavanting from the homeland to come save me. Catherine still needs a lot of help and it’s getting worse before it gets better. To think that I gave the Russians the benefit of the doubt because I knew Catherine would be a little sensitive to the whole situation. But this is just horrible. I literally witnessed the Emperor laying with someone in the middle of the hall!

This is definitely a reminder of what not to do when I become Duchess at least. No wild parties at court more than once a week, and no.

My chamber doors bursted open to see Marial storming in, closing the doors behind her. She turned her back and leaned against the door. A panic expression was written on her face as I was waiting for an explanation.

“Yes Marial?” Asking as I continued to work on my letter.

“We’ve got a problem?” I took a sip of my wine that I had sitting out with me.

“Don’t we always?”

“It’s Catherine.” Putting down the quill as I turned around in my chair to stare at her.

“Is Catherine alright?”

“Now that she's Leo , yes. But the ladies..they did something bad. Not extremely bad but bad.” Is this a situation where I should be extremely worried? Worried? Or just a pat on the shoulder should make her feel better.

“After we passed out the eggs to the ladies of the court, Lady Svenska invited her to the tea party she threw, they were in a dance and one of the ladies punched her in the noise and caused her nose blood.” No. NO! NOT WHILE I’M AROUND!

“Are they still at their dance?” Popping up from the chair as I walked over to my trunk.

“Yes. They will be for another hour or two.” Which means pastries and tea will be required. Did I bring it? I really thought I brought it YES!

“Please let Catherine know that I will be handling these women the way they should’ve been. Tossed back down to the station they truly belong in, not what they thought.” Ordering Marial as I rang my bell for Fernanda. She came in as I placed the bottle on the end of the desk.

“Yes M’Lady.”

“Did we bring tea dance attire?” Asking her as she nodded.

“Great. Get my full attire ready, I’m going to way these peasants.” AS before you know I hate wearing the wigs, corsets, layers of face paint, and the dress. But duty calls in this situation because no one lays a hand on my cousin!

Taking off my boots as I heard someone come running into my room as I waited to see who it was. Catherine slid in as I was still sitting there taking off my boots. If she thought she could talk me out of this then she’s surely mistaken.

“Chiara please don’t!” Catherine begged as Fernanda came in with the dress as Catherine looked like she was going to explode.

“You don’t have any idea how this country works and if you do something like this then you could ruin everything I’ve worked so hard for.” Catherine stood directly in front of me as I leaned back against the chair.

“Well your last plan turned out to be a disaster and look what they did!”

“Minor setbacks tend to happen in these situations.”

“You’d call that minor?” Pointing directly as her nose as I got up from my desk.

“Please Chiara just because this works in your country doesn’t mean the same thing here. Peter will see this as an attack and were right in the middle of a war! He would be more than happy to send soldiers just because you caused half the women of the court to suffer.” Rolling my eyes as I began unbuttoning my shirt.

“Might I make a suggestion?” Marial poked her head into the bedroom as we both turned to face her.

“There’s always smacking me down.” See we wouldn’t be in this situation if Catherine would’ve just listened to Marial and I!

“Yes! Look if you don’t smack her down then I’ll be taking this matter into my own hand. And of course it has to be in public. And you’ll really have to say something to really piss off Catherine.” She knows that if she doesn’t do it then I’ll be doing what I do best.

“The horse fucking.”

“Cause allegedly you did. Though I don’t know how you would but maybe if you sort of..”

“Fine. Tonight Elizabeth is throwing a party in honor of the archbishop being selected so I guess we’ll do it there. Can we talk privately?” Catherine whispered as I looked at Fernanda to leave the room. Marial followed suit to close the bedroom door for me to sit back down at my desk.

“Though I appreciate you willing to avenge my attack. I think you enjoy getting ahead of yourself.”

“We’re family. No one hurts la mia famiglia.” I turned away from her to walk over to the small liquor table that sits in my bedroom. Pouring her a glass of wine then grabbing mine from my desk.

“Here. Something to make you feel a little at home.” Handing it to her then she looked at the bottle.

“Gaja Ornellaia. Dark and sweet.” Clinking glasses together as we both took a sip. Motioning her to sit as she sighed.

“How do you deal with women of the court? Sucking up to them sounds torturous and there’s no way that I can stoop to their level of living.” Catherine sat down on one of the loveseats for me to sit down at my desk.

“This court is one that I won’t be forgetting till the day I die. It’s one that has been let loose to do their own bidding. For the moment I wouldn’t suck up to them, but obviously we’re on a mission to make everyone in favor of you instead of Peter. So gifts. Not like your golden eggs but something that will truly aid them in their boring day to day lives. Maybe a better doctor for instance, or even a dentist. Lord knows how rotted their teeths are and could use at least some sort of cleaning. Though they say their modern, it’s more a barbaric modern.”

“You’re the empress Catherine. You have a lot more power at your fingertips then you realize and they’re trying to make you inferior because you’re new to the court. If you really wanted to you could strip down Svenska from her station if you truly wanted to. Lord knows I would at this point in my mind.”

“The ladies are led by Svenska with the amount of money..”

“Who's the Empress of Russia? Who rules Russia? The donkey face can’t even work up the courage to hit you she sends one of her ladies to do it. I really need to find that mean bone in your body and drag it out of you. I’d hate to say it but there is no such thing as a loving Queen. Most of us who are in royal power must rule with an iron fist but that doesn’t mean to be a monster onto the people like your moron of a husband.”

“Be truthful and fair to the people. Gain their trust in the way they need it, not you.” Close enough.

“Tell me Chiara. What exactly were you going to do with the ladies if I hadn’t come by to stop you?”

“Remember that cruise two years ago?”

“Chiara!”

“What! It worked last time, why wouldn’t it work a second time.” It really would’ve and if something like that happens again while I’m around it will work again.

Catherine put her glass of wine down to then lean a little more towards me which caused me to lean back against the seat.

“You’re a lot more bitter than usual. Is everything alright?” No. Everything is not alright! How can any of this be alright! This country! These people! Backwoods! Horny toads that just do whatever they Goddamn please without respecting..Oh it’s not even that! Fucking Grigor accusing me of sleeping with the moron Emporer who has a mind of a child! How dare he accuse me! I wouldn’t have any sort of sexual contact with him if he was the last man on this earth. If the gates of hell were open and the choice for me to go into Heaven was having sex with Peter I still wouldn’t partake in it!

“Peachy. Just absolutely peachy.” Chugging the rest of my wine to then throw my empty glass against the wall.

“You know that scared me for the first few weeks of being here. But now..” Finishing her drink to then chuck it against the wall. Shattering against it as she laid down on the love seat.

“But now it’s become a permanent sound in my mental wallpaper.” Grabbing the bottle to then walk over to where she was laying then sat down next to her. Getting comfortable as I pulled the cork out with my teeth to spit it across the room. Taking a drink to then give her the bottle.

I’ve yet to look at the top of my room since I moved in. They’re cupids that are dancing around in the clouds. Not sure who exactly designed this room but those cupids...they're so masculine..Why are they so muscular? I know no baby ever comes out this muscular no matter who the father is. Zeus himself could not ever make a baby this muscular!

“Catherine. Catherine. Lookup.” Pointing directly at them as her head tilted in curiosity.

“They’re cupids.”

“Yes they’re cupids. But have you ever noticed that they’re extremely muscular. They’re babies and have more muscles than Zeus himself. Just look!” We began laughing as the bottles continued to go back and forth between the both of us. This is exactly what I think we both needed. No men, no Government, not worrying about anything and just laughing at extremely masculine cupids.

“How is Leo? How is having a lover in your life?”

“It’s..intoxicating and confusing. When I first arrived I planned to make Peter fall in love with me as I am a romantic. Then tossed into a wheel of uncertainty. Leo says that he has fallen for me and..it feels so wrong from everything I’ve once believed in.” That’s one word to describe everything I’ve gone through so far.

“Our worlds are messy. We always think that it will be easy as those before us. But the world...people..him..it’s unclear.”

What am I doing? I’m to be a Grand Duchess in the next year or two, there’s a possibility of being a Queen and I’m in a tiny crisis on how to deal with some Russian that’s just using to get back at his wife? That didn’t even feel like the case till he brought up Peter and the accusation. But...look what he’s going through in his life as I imagine he doesn’t want his wife to be behaving like this.

Grigor...Grigor...for some reason the thought of his arms being wrapped around me is helping me fall asleep..so peacefully. He does this thing with his thumb where it glides up and down where it’s placed and it brings such comfort.

After drinking for a little longer than predicted. Catherine and I ended up sleeping directly where we were sitting for more than two hours. Alcohol is such a good night medicine. Fernanda came in to wake us as we both felt like brand new people and we had to get ready for Elizabeths party.

Per usual I truly didn’t feel like getting shoved into a dress and from what I’ve gathered about Elizabeth this party will end up becoming a clothes off party. So why not just dress the part but not get involved. Besides...I want to piss off Grigor for his accusation so why to wear as little as possible for something he’s not receiving.

My beautiful crafted corset that was pink with gold floral designs all around it. My plain white long sleeve shirt was underneath the corset with my nice pair of black pants and boots. Quite the scandal some would say. (But as you know it’s me just trying to be comfortable.)

“Boot dagger.” Fernanda tossed the sheathed knife onto the bed as I placed my boot on the bed and placed it in the boot. And now we’re set.

“Feel free to let loose tonight. I should be able to get myself ready to sleep and probably will be extremely intoxicated.” She nodded as I fixed my shirt so that my chest would be a little more exposed than most times.

Wait, something is missing. Rings yes, boot knife yes, and OH! Necklace! Walking to the desk to pull out my jewelry box to pull out my pearl necklace. The first few rows of pearls were tight around the neck itself then relaxed across my chest. Oh yes. Much better.

Walking out of my bedroom to already hear the madness going down near the end of the hallway. I really need a break from this palace. I’m in Russia and I should be going into the cities to at least see them! Maybe Catherine would be up for a trip to Moscow or Saint Petersburg sometime soon. I think that it would do her some good to go out and see the people to get a complete understanding of the country that she lives in. It does no good for a rising Empress to preach about change when she hasn’t met her own subjects. At home I would constantly go out and about to see my people. Support their businesses and make sure everything was doing okay. Yes her and I are in different situations but going out every once in a while wouldn’t hurt.

Walking into the party to see people were holding snakes, animals, and...a bird? I must admit this is one interesting party. Reminds me of when we had an animal exposition a few months back and I got to see a Tiger from China! But I imagine that would be impossible here due to the fact that the tiger would eat all of them up.

Looking around to see the ladies were sitting around the fireplace laughing as I wanted to choke the donkey face till she turned a different color. Ah and George. The Emporers would be where you had the audacity to become angry when Grigor and I were fooling around. The hypocrisy that spills from her mouth is exhausting.

Speaking of Grigor, where is he? Trying not to look suspicious as I searched the room to see him sitting with Peter and children as they drink wine? They look around 10? Mother didn’t even let me touch a drop besides communion till I turned at least 12! He looked directly at me to form a smile on his face. Maybe I over blew the whole situation. Tends to be a problem of mine which I need to fix.

“These parties..so interesting.” Catherine commented as we continued into the party. A waiter passed by with one glass as I snuck it for myself.

“Remember the plan.” Winking as we both sat down with the bitches.

“So. Tell me of your lives here.”

“All is bliss in the court of Peter.”

“Of course life is bliss here. But if tiny improvements could be made, and I could help you as Empress, that would gladden my heart to be a friend and a use to you all.”

“Why don’t you stop the war?” Why don’t you stop being a child? Impossible. They all chuckled as I wanted to scream.

“I will note it down. But it is probably beyond me at this point. Maybe more immediate things.” I can’t chime in on this because I don’t really live here full full time. (Though it feels like I’ve been living here for ages!)

“Well, the carriages are always in disrepair. They do not fix it fast enough.” George chimed in. Always being helpful in gaining her own glory.

“I see. I shall look into it. How is your son Tatyana? Boris. He was unwell?”

“Fucking Chekhow saw him, but...We need better doctors than the Chekhovs. Boris coughs blood, and the fool puts leeches on his throat. I do not know doctoring but it seems ridiculous. And my dearest Boris gets sicker.” I truly can not imagine the horror of how this country would handle an outbreak of any sort of disease. Even if precautions are made to keep them at bay.

“He basically killed Raisa.”

“Exactly.”

“Indeed. We must have the most modern medicine. We shall bring a new doctor from France.”

“What a friend you are to us. How is Leo?” Is her life so dull that she must pry her big disgusting nose into Catherines love affair? Looking over to Catherine who looked uncomfortable for just a moment then smiled.

“He makes my skin tingle and my heart gladden.” They all giggled as I wanted to scream. It’s a private affair!

“Surely more detail than that. If you really are our friend, we will need you to open up to us, if it is true and we are to feel you love us.”

“Shut up, whore!” OH SHIT! Taking a sip of my wine after Marial yelled at her. In reality I’m trying not to laugh because holy shit that’s funny!

“She cannot…”

“Apologize!” Her and Catherine exchanged a look as I was ready. C’mon Catherine! Use that mean bone!

“I will see her later. Go back to your quarters, Marial.”

“NEEEEEIGH!” Catherine stood up to slap the living shit out of her to the point she almost fell down on the ground. Everyone gasped as I was sipping my wine trying not to laugh at these dumbasses.

“Do not ever do that! That goes for all of you. Am I heard?” The ladies in the circle slightly nodded as my eyes were directly on Svenska. I know the ass face was responsible for this mess and I’ll be dealing with it even after this. Oh did you think I forgot about the whole tea dance? Far from it.

“I have spoken to my husband on this, and he sees it as a sleight on him. If it is heard again, no matter what family, what wealth, they will be a servant stripped of everything and we will slap the shit out of them on a daily basis! Am I heard?” And that is how you do it!

“Marial, wipe the blood from your nose. Pour me wine.” Catherine sat down as Marial began to pour her wine.

“Now, other things you ladies need from me? Lady Svenska, can I help you in any way?”

“No Empress. I am satisfied.”

“Mmm. Marvelous. Good day then.” Catherine got up from her seat as I stayed exactly where I was for a few minutes. I’m waiting to see if ass face will say something smart right after Catherine has left.

“What are you waiting for exactly?” Svenska commented as my focus went directly to her.

“Oh just..watching..and waiting.” Svenska turned back towards Tatyana as I noticed George was staring directly at me. What could she possibly want?

“I think we need to talk.”

“Need or want? I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Her eyebrow was raised at me as I put my drink down.

“And I find it hard to believe that you’re a good woman of any sort. If you want to talk then talk. You have the floor and are ready to tell me all about how you’re the victim and everything you do is for status. Truthfully you enjoy every moment of it that you go out of your own way to spend all your time with him.”

I waited for a few moments for her to say something back against my statement but what does she have against me? Being a whore? She’s already got that covered in her department so what would that even do against me?

“The Emperor is about to announce the new patriarch to the court.” A servant told us as I got up from my chair to then walk away. Stupid woman.

We walked into a large sitting room as the new patriarch was wearing his garments as Peter was standing on top of the love seat. I stood next to Leo as I noticed Grigor was coming to stand next to me.

“The new Patriarch! Huzzah!”

“Huzzah!”

“Oh! To the Empress! She is finding her feet here, and her fists.” Took her a minute but we managed to get it out of her.

“Apparently she fucked a horse before she got here!” Damn it….

“For I am all for fucking and after Archie blesses us we will all begin!”

“Huzzah!” Glad to know that after everyone is blessed that they’re basically saying yeah God take it back. Didn’t need it in the first place.

“Can we talk?” Grigor whispered for me to raise my eyebrow.

“You and your wife truly love to talk don’t you?” Not looking directly at him as I kept my head straight forward.

“Please Chiara. I really….” Maybe he is sorry. I feel like this is becoming a usual song and dance for us these past few weeks. Nodding for the two of us to turn around and walk out of the room.

We started down the hallway keeping absolutely silent towards each other. Who exactly was going to start this conversation? Not me because at this moment I have nothing to say on the matter besides saying sorry for being a little over dramatic, and that’s it. He stopped walking to move in front of the fireplace to warm himself up a little. Turning towards me to let out a large sigh.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry that I accused you of sleeping with Peter because of my own personal problems. It wasn’t right and I truly feel horrible for saying that…” I could tell that he wanted to say much more but was working on it. My hands were behind my back as I waited for him to finish his statement.

“Grigor it’s not a..

“Chiara I’ve fallen for you.” He interrupted me as I was confused by what he just said. What?

“I have fallen for you Duchess Chiara.” It sent shivers down my spine. What why? We’ve only known each other for a few weeks and now he’s fallen. Oh no...no no no.

“I am not the romantic type Grigor. I am not like my cousin who will bring you a twig to show love and unity. I..I don’t care for it.” Truth be told I’ve been avoiding the whole love marriage life ever since I was born. If I marry then I lose everything. The power will go to my husband and I am left to be nothing but a baby making device for my husband.

Yet...this feels different. I feel as if I should be comforting Grigor to hold one another. If I could keep him as a lover for eternity I might be okay with this idea. But marriage is something that I plan on never happening in my life.

“I don’t expect you to have fallen because why would you have fallen for a piece of shit like myself. You’re right about me..I’m nothing but a weakling who can’t even stand up against the moron himself..” He fell to his knees as he was beginning to have some sort of attack on the floor in front of me. Quickly approaching him as I got down on my knees.

“Grigor take a breath.” Rubbing his back as he was trying to catch his breath.

“My mind is beginning to chip away right before my eyes Chiara..” Oh no..no no. Holding him close to me as I kissed the top of his forehead. Okay so me swearing off love may just be a phase like mother said! Or is this just me feeling bad. I’ll figure that out later!

“This..this is just a rocky path in the road of life. We all go through it and eventually it becomes better. Just have to go through the rough path in order to see that beautiful green field on the other...this isn’t helping is it.” He shook his head as I thought I heard a door opening.

“A weakling… I’m such a weakling..” I’d rather the court not see Grigor falling apart in front of their eyes. Laughing was echoing from the hall as I had to get him out of here.

“Let’s go somewhere else.” Telling him as I lifted him up from the ground. We were stumbling around a little as we quickly walked through the palace till we made it to the apartments. No this isn’t meant for me to tackle him and have rough sex. Rather..rather not let the court see him breaking down when he’s the most important members of Peters court.

Opening the door to my apartment as he walked in then slamming the doors shut. Locking it as he fell onto the love seat. His breathing did calm down a little bit yet he was still in some sort of a panic state. Water.

“God how am I a man? Any man would’ve killed the other man for sleeping with his wife..you 're right..” Okay now I’m feeling horrible. I poured him a glass of water to then sit on my knees next to Grigor.

“Drink some water.” He sat up to take the glass from my hand.

“How could anyone love me...I’m such a coward. I can’t even fuck my wife...she has to go to someone else in order to fill that void...that desire that I can not fufill.” Well that’s utter bullshit because being railed by him was marvelous.

“Stop that! There is no need to bring down yourself because of your wife being a total whore. Grigor I’m sorry...I’m sorry for being such a cunt towards you. We both come from completely different worlds and I have to remember sometimes that this isn’t home..You’re not a weakling or a coward. This is just a difficult situation that probably doesn’t help that I’ve been acting so horrid towards you..” His glass was empty as I took it from him to place it down on the ground. My hands cupped his cheeks as he held onto them, he closed his eyes to put his forehead against mine.

“May I stay here for the night?” Grigor asked for me to nod.

“I can’t spend another night alone. Not another night…” Sitting up to then wrap my arms around him. He picked me up to then pull me into his lap which made me giggle a little. It’s kind of fun just being hoisted up into someone's lap.

“I don’t plan on making love with you tonight Chiara.” Oh really? This is rather shocking because I figured he would’ve found a way to seduce me into the bed.

“And why is that? Got tired of me already? We’re those three days….or five..still a little blurry with the amount of wine and food

“Never. You are the only good thing that has come from my dreadful existence here.” Somehow I think he’s right.

“I’m really wanting a glass of vodka. Care for some?” Asking as he was rubbing his eyes.

“Please.” Climbing off to walk over on my refilled liquor shelf. Two of my biggest glasses filled with vodka as I imagine it’s like water to him at this point. Just like how wine is like water, just drink it like water. Sitting back down on his lap to give him the glass, clinking out glasses as we both chugged down the vodka. HOLY SHIT THIS BURNS GOING DOWN STILL HOLY CRAP!

“Still getting used to it aren’t you?” He began to laugh as I shook my head then blinked a few times.

“Indeed. But it acts fast and my fingers are already feeling wonderful. How about another?” I’m just going to grab the glass bottle so I can stay comfortable on his lap. Skipping to the bottle as I pulled the cork off and placed it on the table.

“If you would’ve told me when we first met that I would be letting you sit on my lap after our first introduction. I would’ve thought they were mad.” Good times from a few weeks ago when I had a large stick up my ass. Sitting back down to take a swing from the bottle then hand it to him.

“Or me having some sort of relationship with you after I almost beat you with my sabre. How the world changes before our own eyes.” We both nodded to continue passing the glass bottle back and forth to one another.

I could feel it coursing through my veins like water rushing down a river after a rainstorm. It feels incredible! Vodka is truly a wondrous type of alcohol that loves to scorch my throat. Oof. As much as I would love to sit on his lap for a long time, my bed looks absolutely enticing for us to crawl in. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind crawling into bed.

“Would you mind if we got into bed? Your lap is comfortable but my bed just feels so much better. Please Grigor?” Without questioning it. He sat up as my legs wrapped around his back for us to start heading towards the bed. As much as I love not being pounded into oblivion in this position..this is fun! Wait for the corset. I can not get into my sleep mindset if I’m stuck wearing this cage.

He put me down on the bed as I sat on my knees to then begin taking off my corset. Crap Fernanda really tied the bow up high to the point I can’t reach it. His fingers began messing with the string as I felt the air entering my body once again. Tossing it across the room to untuck my shirt from my pants.

“Thank you.” Turning to face him as we leaned in to kiss one another. Softly kissing one another as he placed his hand on my cheek.

“Picnic with me tomorrow. There’s a beautiful tree that the leaves just dance with the wind that is just beautiful.” Yes. I said that I wanted to get some sort of fresh air and the timing could not be more perfect!

“It’s only been one day since I’ve been away from your bed, and I’ve missed the way it feels. Warm..comforting, can be a bit rough but eventually I become in a state of relaxation.” Grigor became comfortable down on the bed as I joined him on top of the covers. He placed his hand on my cheek as I kissed his hand.

“I know you don’t love me or have fallen for me...but thank you.” He drifted to sleep as I began to scoot closer to him. He must’ve felt me move because I was pulled closer to him and tucked into his chest.

This is nice.

Very nice.

taglist!

@mirkwoodshewolf @bonafiderocketqueen @filmslutt @johndeaconshands @jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels @radio-ha-ha @i-have-a-wonky-eye-too @deck-heart @actuallyanita @the-baby-bookworm @sadhwstudent @panagiasikelia @ewannmcgregor

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peachywise · 4 years

Text

nullify

an umbrella academy fanfiction // klaus hargreeves x reader

- part 6: the beginning of understandings || part i ⋆ part ii ⋆ part iii ⋆ part iv ⋆ part v ⋆ more to be released

- synopsis: It was finally time to meet the bringer of the apocalypse– a petite girl wrapped up in a blanket drinking tea. Totally chill. Nothing unusual about the situation at all. At least Klaus was consistent with his irritating commentary.

- note: my bad sorry i haven’t updated in so long!! but i’m back! and since season 2 is now out, please just note that this story is my own continuation of the story after season 1. also, i am no longer doing a tag list. honestly i just can’t be bothered, and i’m sure most of the blogs have changed since the last one for this series. i post on ao3, so you can subscribe to the story there!!

link on ao3

_______________________________________

Okay. So you were going to face the person who allegedly caused the apocalypse. No big deal. This was just a normal day, and she was just a girl. Albeit one who had undergone pretty severe trauma in her life, but hey. Nothing you couldn’t handle with a pleasant smile and a cup of tea, right?

Maybe the tea was a bad idea. But you felt like you needed a peace offering. Something to break the ice before asking someone who was relatively a complete stranger, “I think I can contain your powers, so why don’t we try? Also, why don’t you move into my apartment for the time being? I promise the occasional cockroach that comes out the drain won’t do any harm. It would be nice if he paid rent, but I can’t complain.”

Yeah. Just a normal day.

An abrupt tap on your shoulder and Klaus’s breath tickling the side of your neck forced your eyes away from your previous stare down with the white bedroom door, and any and all courage you’d built up to walk in quickly dissipated.

“Hey, you think if this whole—” his voice caught on a sharp intake of breath as he tried to find his words, his hands rolling, “trying to convince my sister to not start the second apocalypse by moving in with you thing doesn’t work out, I can still crash there? You can’t begin to imagine just how stifling it is here. I don’t even think Five has changed out of his little uniform in a week, let alone had a shower. You smell so much better. Like vanilla with a bit of stale coffee and deep-seated cynicism.”

Turning your face fully towards his, your noses almost touching by how close he had leaned in, you kept your expression passive. And then you tipped your hand to let half of the scalding tea fall over the lip of the cup and on his bare feet.

As Klaus jumped back, hopping between his feet and hollering a string of “ow, ow, ow,” you took a small step back and replied with a drab and mocking, “that has to hurt.”

Klaus gave a curt laugh that was almost lost, given his teeth were clenched in pain. “You know, I don’t know if I like your violent style of foreplay.”

“You’re making it very clear why Vanya destroyed the world in the first place, Klaus,” you responded, voice raised. “You haven’t even experienced just how sadistic I can be. I can turn around right now and just let her cause the second apocalypse again.”

“How original of you, threatening to leave. What is it, the tenth time already? Maybe if we’re all lucky, you can get a couple more in before dinner!”

“You know what’s original? Your desperate need for attention because you never got any from daddy as a kid. I’ve never seen that before-“

The door opened in front of you, and someone’s soft cough had you and Klaus both turning in their direction.

Allison Hargreeves.

“Are you guys done?” She questioned, a tight impatient look crossed on her features. At a loss for words, partly embarrassed now that you’d raised your voice, you tried to find anywhere to look but her eyes. Your gaze ultimately got caught on her neck, and the healed, puffy scar raised on her skin. Right. They’d mentioned Vanya had injured Allison. Pretty horribly at that. You remembered what you were nervous about in the first place.

“Allison, this is Y/N, though they will reply to trouble or travel-sized Satan just as well,” Klaus offered, slipping past his sister, who stood fully in the frame of the doorway.

Reaching behind to scratch your neck, you forced a timid smile on your face and gave a small wave with your free hand. “Hey. Nice, uh… place you got here.” Totally casual. “Very clean.” Not awkward at all.

Allison snorted. “Uh-huh. Nice to meet you. Let’s see if this was all worth it, shall we?”

Straight to the point. You could respect that. Nodding, you kept the nervous smile on your face as you walked past her after she sidestepped away from the door. You didn’t really know what you were expecting. Part of you thought the room was going to be some weird pit of despair. Dark and broody, like it was supposed to set the scene for some comic book character about to delve into their villain origin story.

But nope. It was just a standard bedroom, very well lit, white linen, clean carpet. The only thing that really stood out was the sunny yellow blanket wrapped tightly around a petite frame huddled on the single bed, a sky blue polka dot teacup clutched in both of her hands.

Well, now you didn’t feel so bad that you’d poured out basically all the tea you were going to give Vanya on Klaus.

“I’m guessing you’re Vanya?”

No shit, she was Vanya. You literally knew what she looked like.

You shuffled your feet awkwardly as the girl’s eyes flickered up to you. You still had the teacup in your hand.

“I brought you this, but I… spilled a little,” you commented off-handily, moving over to set it on a small side table.

Klaus made a notably shocked look. “Is that what you call a little?”

Vanya nodded her head once, her tone quietly gruff as she added, “we could hear you through the door.”

Allison offered a very helpful, “I’m sure the whole apartment floor heard them.”

Klaus, unable to contain himself from continuing this rally of comments, added, “well, it’s not the only time my screams have woken up someone next door. Certainly won’t be the last, God hoping the world doesn’t explode again.”

All three of you groaned. Good to know you weren’t the only one exhausted.

“It’s nice to meet you, Vanya. Did they explain to you why I’m here?” You asked, moving closer to the girl in question.

Vanya’s eyes glanced quickly over to Allison, who nodded her head in encouragement. She then turned to look at you once more and gave a slight jerk of her head in affirmation. Despite what had happened between Vanya and Allison, you could see the trust between the sisters. You might have gotten the story of what happened three months prior, but obviously they had worked out some stuff. At least a little bit. “Yeah. Yeah, Five uhm, gave me the gist of it,” Vanya replied, her voice still quiet with an edge of hesitance.

“It really works,” Klaus stated, looking at you with a joyful look. “Not seeing Ben’s ugly mug for once…” he pressed his hands to his heart and contentedly sighed, “it was the biggest blessing one could have given me.” His serene mood quickly dissipated as he looked to an empty corner and bit out a tight, “zip it, ghoul boy.”

“I don’t know,” Vanya carried on, as Klaus and presumably Ben continued to have an argument in the back. “Our powers are different. I don’t know if I want to take the risk of using it again in case it doesn’t work.”

You sighed, and Allison brought her hand up to nervously to chew on a nail. Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, you tried your best to settle the situation. Yeah, the money you would get for this would be nice, but you could tell this all went beyond that. It was important. You knew they wouldn’t have just let you into their inner circle if it wasn’t.

“I get it. What happened was awful, but you aren’t in that place anymore, right? Panic makes you do stupid shit. You aren’t you when you’re in such a crisis. That doesn’t mean you don’t take accountability for those actions, but the you sitting here isn’t actively trying to blow up the moon and cause the end of the world.” Peering over to Klaus, who stood grumpily off to the side, you asked, “it was the moon, right?”

His attention quickly fixed on you as he replied back, “oh yeah,” making a sudden explosion movement with his hands and horrible sound effects to go with it.

Allison’s blunt, “Klaus,” was enough to quickly shut him up.

“But I could panic again,” Vanya pleaded, her hazel eyes cutting in their pain. As stable and as comfortable as she appeared now, you could recognize that constant fear that must have lived in her. You knew too much about regret. You could see that in her eyes.

“And that’s where I come in. I can stop that. But we have to try first to see if it can work.” Reaching out a hesitant hand, you placed it on her knee still covered with the blanket and offered, “this power is inside you whether you like it or not. I don’t have perfect control over mine. I wish there were things I had done differently.” People you could have saved. People who you accidentally hurt. “You tried suppressing it, but that only made it explosive once it was actually let out. We can try to make it so you can live with it. Even if you don’t use it, at least you can control it.”

Vanya bit her lip and drooped her head, her hair falling in curtains around her face. You were curious about what her thoughts were. The furrow between her brows tensed and untensed in a way you knew her answer to the proposition was continually changing.

“Vanya, I’ve gone the self-destructive route to try and drown the voices out,” Klaus chirped up in the silence, his compassionate tone odd to your ears. From the corner, he strolled past you and rested a hand on his sister’s shoulder. “But I’ve never experienced quiet so fully until they put their field around me.” Soft eyes met yours as he added, “I never thought it was possible. It’s all I ever wanted.”

Holding his look for a moment, you weren’t quite sure what to say. You’d never really been… praised for your gift. Whenever you tried to use it to help someone else, you’d get called a freak or something worse. Any other time, it accidentally (well, purposefully sometimes) harmed someone. You could tell Klaus was sincere. Listening to the voices of the dead so much must be harrowing. You never really gave much thought about spirits and their presence, but for all you know, there could be multiple in the room with him at any moment. Always in pain. Always sharing that with him.

All you could manage to offer in response was a gentle smile before you tipped your head back to look at Vanya. “You don’t know me. I can’t ask you to trust me to do this. But why don’t you stay with me for a bit anyway? Klaus will be there, and you can come and go as you want, the others too. I’ll show you a couple of things I can do with the force field, and when you’re ready to test it out, we will. This is in your hands, Vanya. You’re in control.”

That’s all people like us could ever want. Control. Certainty—

Understanding.

“I already called sharing the bed with Trouble, just so you know,” Klaus said.

Although, it seemed your understanding clearly had its limits.

“If you did that, I would have to burn my bed so I didn’t get fleas. How about I get you a nice doggy bed instead?”

That got a grin out of Vanya, and when Allison added, “I think a flea repellent collar would be a wise investment as well,” her smile grew a little more comfortable.

“very funny, really, ” Klaus muttered.

“Okay. I’ll come with you,” Vanya finally conceded, reaching over to set her cup on the nightstand. “I’m— I don’t think I’m ready to try it out yet, but I guess if I do lose control again, having you there will be a good safety net?”

“We’ll all be your safety net this time.” Allison’s tone was earnest, remorse and care wrapped up on one. “I promise.” She sat on the bed and Vanya gently rested her head on her shoulder.

Whatever had gone on with this family, whatever tragedy had occurred in the past or with the current ordeal, seemed to be mending. You were kind of in awe staring at the scene. You had never known this kind of support since your father, and even then, you were so young that your memories of those feelings of comfort had faded. You lived alone. Didn’t really have any lasting friendships. You had the old couple across the hall who you played cards with at least once a week— though you were pretty sure they cheated every single time— but that wasn’t even close to what the Hargreeves had.

Family.

Standing back up, you heaved in a heavy breath. “I’ll leave you to pack,” you offered with your best shot at a cheery smile despite the sudden growing muck (jealousy, sadness, regret) festering through your veins. “Would you mind if I use the bathroom?”

Allison started to talk, offering you directions before Klaus interjected, “I’ll show you where it is.”

You were going to argue that you were perfectly capable of managing directions in the single apartment, but he placed his hand on your back and was quickly ushering you out of the door and down the rest of the hall.

“You really okay with doing this?” His questioned jarred you, eyes widening as you stepped away from his touch.

“Klaus, are you kidding?” You shot back, your exhaustion entrapping your exasperation in one low, breathy air. “I didn’t see you caring about that when I had originally said no multiple times.”

“You didn’t have that,” he stalled, struggling to come up with words as he haphazardly waved his hands in front of your face, “that look before. You looked sad when Vanya said she would come.”

Ah. You thought you’d shielded your face away from what you had felt. Strange that he would pick up on it. “It’s fine, Klaus. I want to help.”

Klaus didn’t look so sure, but he was also resigned enough to accept that answer. It was the truth anyway. It was a brief second of allowing yourself to feel bad. We all had those. A desire for something else someone has, for love, for care. But maybe this situation would help. Helping someone else, someone relatively similar to you, given the fucked up freak birth that messed up all their lives, would give you a sense of purpose.

“Can I ask you something, though?” You said, biting the inside of your cheek in a sort of nervous gesture.

“Yeah, sure,” Klaus prompted, curiosity lowing his eyebrows as he slightly tilted his head.

“Did you mean what you said in there? Did my blocking your power really help you that much?” You just needed to know. He looked so earnest, almost… desperate to experience it again. You felt seized by a sudden warmth. You just wanted to experience that again, whatever that was. To feel like you had done right.

“Trouble, you have no idea how much that helped. I meant what I said,” his tone turned almost affectionate, his eyes almost pleading with you to believe, “It really is all I ever wanted.”

And suddenly, the warmth that you hoped would have a growing familiarity in your body came back. However, there was something else there, nagging at the back of your consciousness, that you couldn’t quite grasp. It almost felt like concern or empathy, but there was something more. Despite Klaus’s kind words, there was an undercurrent of sadness to them. The man in front of you, who sometimes seemed so much younger and fragile than what he was, had been through hurt. You could recognize it. You had the moment you had met him and all the Hargreeves. But you were finally beginning to fully comprehend what his particular sadness was.

“It’s horrible to have been forced with a burden that could probably do so much good, but we just haven’t been able to see it.” You murmured, speaking your thoughts out loud without really meaning to. “All of you guys were forced to do good with your powers. Be the good guys, get the bad ones. That in itself was another burden just on top of it. You were kids. You never got to experience normal lives and have your powers adjusted to fit normalcy. I guess I’m lucky in that regard.”

You didn’t really know what you were saying. Just looking at Klaus’s face and the emotions you couldn’t read had you spewing words so freely that surely he must have thought you to be the erratic one now and not him.

“Sorry,” you laughed lightly, trying to break the tension. “I guess I’m just trying to say, if my power can do good by helping you guys out, then I’m happy. Whenever things get too noisy, just let me know and I’ll try and drown it out for you. Maybe just… living for a while, not stressing about your next plans, will help too.” You could try to provide some sort of normalcy in your shitty little apartment, with shitty cable, and an even shittier view.

“I’ll do that,” Klaus’s voice was so quiet you barely caught what he had said. “Thank you.”

Averting your gaze to the floor, you rubbed the tip of your nose with the back of your hand and stood in silence for a few moments.

“So uhm. Where’s that bathroom?”

“Oh, shit! Ah, yeah, just down the hall and to the right off the kitchen,” Klaus laughed, tension easing.

“What, not going to lead to it?” You teased.

“No, I think you can manage pretty well,” he smirked, before walking off into one of the adjacent rooms, probably to go pack.

What a shame. You’d probably have to burn all his clothes before they touched your carpets, now that you thought about it. You know, because of the fleas and all that.

#klaus hargreeves #klaus hargreeves fanfic #klaus hargreeves fanfiction #nullify #tua #tua fanfic #tua fanfiction #vanya hargreeves #the umbrella academy #the umbrella academy fanfic #the umbrella academy fanfiction #klaus hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves imagine #robert sheehan

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maple-writes · 3 years

Text

WHG 14: Boat 1

tagging @ratracechronicler @concealeddarkness13 (Thanks for Nesri!) and @pen-of-roses

in which Cirrus does a lot of dancing

###

I hoped everyone recognized how much effort it took when I held my tongue about the honeymooners stealing half our accommodations. If it didn’t carry the risk of blowing our cover they might not have been so lucky. I couldn’t see either of them out on the main floor though, and I could only guess what they might have been using their new roomy lodgings for.

After a quick loop around the main dance floor, there didn’t seem to be anything immediately dangerous. Nothing we hadn’t expected anyway. Soldiers, peacekeepers, locked doors and watchful eyes, but most seemed here for the party and nothing more. Nice. I took a drink from one of the servers, not quite sure what it was but anything with a raspberry garnish had to be good. Though, maybe not as good as I expected. Whoever made this made it too sweet. Far too sweet.

Across the room a pair of women were watching me, whispered to each other. One of them pointed, probably trying to be subtle as she smiled to her friend as if trying to encourage her to do something.

I took another sip of the overly sweet berry drink before stetting it down. It didn’t take a genius to guess what they might have been talking about if Nesri’s judgment was to be trusted. That could probably work in my favor. They shushed each other when they noticed me coming, one giving the other a little shove.

I put on a smile and held out a hand. “Care to dance?”

She blushed a moment, even behind her makeup before taking my hand and letting me lead her to the floor. We joined the other dancers, and she struggled to hide a smile when I rested my hand on her waist to dance.

Now, how should I get her to talk? “So, how are you enjoying the party?”

At first she stammered, but even as we started to talk it quickly turned out she didn’t have any information that could be remotely useful. Neither she, nor her friend, or two other young men who asked to dance seemed to have noticed anything at all about the boat besides what they saw at that very moment. For the most part they didn’t seem to have any thoughts there could be anything misleading about the reason for the party, though none had a chance yet to meet the so-called lucky tributes.

I retreated back to the side. What a waste of time. Sure, the dancing had been fun, and the partners were lively, but hopefully the others were having better luck getting anything useful. I sighed and started towards some of the fruit laid out on one of the tables. Maybe the raspberry without the overly sweetened drink would be better.

I looked over the fruits, but an avox replacing a plate of cubed mango made me pause. It was her. It had to be, the same girl who’d been assigned to our floor before the games, the same one who’d dragged the water out on stage. Maybe she was the capitol’s. Whatever the reason, maybe this would be more of a break than flirty youths.

“Excuse me.” I stood across the table from her, looking down at her as she realized I was talking to her. “I need a fresh set of sheets in my room, now.” If she recognized me, she didn’t show it. If she didn’t then the disguise must have been working. She kept her eyes down as I told her the room number and she left with a nod.

As soon as she’d gone, I turned and took my time leaving the main room. She’d need a couple minutes to go and find the linens. That would buy me a minute or two.

The hall was near silent compared to the bustle of the main room, empty besides the evidence of the newlyweds in their room via a closed door and a do not disturb sign. I rolled my eyes as I slipped into our room and waited. Arms crossed I watched the lake out the little window, shimmering in the sun. Clouds lurked on the horizon though, far off for now but if the winds turned…

The door clicked and I turned as the avox stepped in. She froze wide-eyed when she saw me, clutching the folded sheets just a little tighter.

I sighed, letting my hands fall to my sides. “Relax. I’m not going to hurt you.” I nodded. “Close the door, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She swallowed, but did as she was told, pulling the door closed with a gentle thud.

“I’m Cirrus, one of the tributes on the floor your were assigned to.” I paused as she blinked, seeming to at least recognize my voice. “Look, I can’t talk too long in case anyone gets suspicious, but a handful of other tributes and I escaped the arena together, and we intend on trying to free our friends held captive here.” I nodded at her. “One of them was the one forced to hurt you with magic. I don’t think she wanted to, I hope you know that.”

She nodded along, one hand tracing gingerly along where Lynne had cut her with the crystalized water up on stage.

“If you help us, I’ll try my hardest to make sure you get out with us.”

The girl’s head snapped up, hopeful for only a moment before her eyes narrowed. Her shoulders tensed and her jaw clenched.

This time though, she didn’t look away when I met her stare. “You probably know this place far better than nearly anyone else on board. You know the timetable, the events, everything you’d be expected to put on, don’t you?” I grinned. “When I was younger my mother would tell me a mistreated servant was dangerous. I didn’t hear her then, but now… Who better to poison a king than the one who pours his wine and serves his dinner? So to speak anyway.”

I held out my hands in a shrug. “Not that you have to kill the president, getting him out of the way is accounted for.” She listened intently as I filled her in on the plan. Even if she did decide to turn on us, it wasn’t like she was going to tell anyone, right? “Whatever you can do to win us the upper hand would be appreciated.”

She smiled, wide and eager with devious excitement glinting in her eye. She nodded, shoulders set and determined. I held out a hand, she shook it, and we went our separate ways. Hopefully she’d come through. She seemed in on it enough though.

I wasn’t back out on the main floor for long before Nesri found me. She pushed through the crowd until she stood in front of me, leaning in to whisper.

“I found and old friend, and he has invited us to meet the captain. He says they will help us out.” She smiled. “And he’s a horrible liar, so I trust him.”

The more help the better. I nodded. “Good.” Hopefully her friend would be useful and not as bad at this kind of stuff as he allegedly was at lying. I took a sip of my drink. Even this one was too sweet. “I might have talked one of the avoxes into helping us too.”

She grinned. “that’s wonderful! The more the merrier! Did you find any other info? I saw you snooping around the corridors early on.”

If only. “Not as much as I would like.” I sighed. “Nothing seems weird, and no one I talked to seemed to know anything besides trends.” Trends I’d never need to know ever again.

Nesri laughed. “I bed those trends were horrendous too.” Correct. She leaned forward, gripping my arm with a smile. “Well, I’ve gotta move on. I want to let everyone else know so we can meet his captain soon.”

She turned to leave, straight into a drunken woman in a costume bikini. “You two are the most adorable couple I’ve ever seen! You two simply must dance! It will be so aesthetically pleasing!”

What? I blinked. “Couple?” Was she talking to us?

The woman giggled, all too-white teeth and uncoordinated gesture. “No need to be shy about it! You have matching outfits and everything!” Damn it with the outfits. “I simply must insist you dance. It will be so entertaining!”

By now others had started to crowd around, swarming like bored bees to honey buzzing with their agreement and excitement. They didn’t look about to disperse anytime soon.

I swallowed, and turned to Nesri when I couldn’t find the words. “Nesri?” Please say something good. My head spun. What was I supposed to do?

But Nesri only smirked. “Well, you heard the woman.”

That wasn’t what I’d hope she’d say, but I guess, what other choice did we have? “Of course.” I bowed slightly and held out a hand, probably too formal but if it was a show they wanted then it was a show they’d get. “Shall we?”

She took my hand and we started dancing in front of the gathered crowd, bathed in their shallow oohs and aws. This close in a slow-song dance, whatever it was that Triel had done to Nesri’s face was nice. Makeup shimmered in spots of light like shining fish under clear waters. It was almost strange to see her all dressed up like some proper high-class lady after all the pestering she’d put me through all last week.

She leaned close, grinning up at me. “You’re still cute when you’re flustered.”

I rolled my eyes, grappling with what to say. My tongue still felt twisted under so many eyes watching us. “I’m just not used to it, that’s all.”

Nesri glanced at them, watching, chattering to each other. “I wouldn’t have wanted this to be our first dance, with Capitol idiots insisting on it, but—" She turned back to me, a smirk pulling at her face. “I couldn’t have asked for a more handsome partner.”

Again? I shrugged. “I mean, my mother did say I was vain.” Though she hadn’t meant it as a compliment. “Guess it paid off.” I grinned, raising my eyebrows before changing the subject. “At least none of them are probably going to throw food at us, unlike some people.”

She gasped, mocking insult. “I would never! I can’t imagine anyone would do something so horrendous.” She matched my grin, but something seemed to catch her eye. She peered over my shoulder and I could feel her stiffen under my hands. “Shit.” Nesri ducked her head down as if hiding behind me. “Churi is here.”

“What?” I twisted, glancing back at whatever it was that she’d seen. Standing in the crowd was that man from the TV demonstration. “Damn it, of course he’s here. Would he recognize you?”

She nodded. “He would recognize me. And he’s staring right at us. Shit.”

I lowered my voice and leaned closer, keeping our words between us. “I saw a door with a lock down the hall.” I paused, watching for her reaction. “Looked like a bathroom maybe, but it might work.”

Nesri peeked up over my shoulder again, eyes flickering as she searched until an insincere smile replaced her worry. “Nah. He’s gone. It’s fine. He’s the kind that won’t alert the peacekeeprs because he’s planning on a confrontation of his own, so if I avoid him, we’ll be fine.” She looks around again, eyes resting this time on our onlookers with a laugh. “I think they’re expecting a kiss at the end of this song.”

Huh? I baulked, but after a glance at the crowd, she might have been right. We had to have at least a quarter of the guest around now. “Better they remember a show than strange people sneaking around the ship, right?”

Nesri grinned and the song started to slow and fade. I hesitated a heartbeat. I’d never done this before, how was it supposed to go? Hopefully this would work. I dipped her down, holding her suspended with a arm across her back. She reached up and pulled me closer, hands running through my hair as our lips met. She was warm, and smelled like whatever fancy perfume Triel must have given her. It suited her, misty and fresh. I could feel my face flush, heat spreading across my cheeks. With the onlookers celebrating, this wasn’t how I’d imagined my first kiss would be, but at least I couldn’t complain about the partner.

The other guests started to go their own ways as soon as we pulled apart, already looking for the next interesting thing. I braced myself for Nesri to mock my blushing, but instead she looked serious.

“Please don’t tell anyone about Churi being here. I don’t want to make them more worried.” She swallowed. “He’s probably only here for me. So, I’m the only one who needs to worry.”

“Fine.” I held her a moment more before bringing her back up to her feet. “But that doesn’t stop me from worrying.” Already it started to gnaw at my stomach. The last time someone tried to convince me I didn’t have to worry about them, he nearly died. He’d thought no one could help him. “You said he isn’t physical but may I remind you Asher is trained as an exorcist? I wont tell him anything, but you’re not here alone Nesri.”

She smiled, but I couldn’t believe it was genuine. “The Shades aren’t really so much spirits as different species from us. I don’t know if he’d be able to help. But thanks.”

Before could think of something else to say, she gave me a quick hug and walked away. What would happen if he found her? What was I supposed to do? Last time someone tried to tell me to stay out of it, to not help, to not come for him and I did, he tried to kill me, but would it have ended better if I hadn’t found him? It could have been worse.

I sighed, turning and slipping through the crowd before I could draw too much attention. Maybe he wouldn’t even find her, wouldn’t end up causing problems before we got off this shop.

I hadn’t seen anyone for a while, but the others had to be nearby, right? There was only so many places they could be on an enclosed boat after all. I stood by one of the tables, craning my neck to see if I could see anyone, but so far no luck.

Something pressed into my hand. The avox girl passed by, a tray in her other hand and her eyes ahead like she hadn’t even noticed me. I curled my fingers around the scrap of folded paper and quietly slipped away back to the room where there’d hopefully not be as many curious eyes.

As soon as the door closed I unfolded the paper. Two sheets of paper that looked like they’d been torn out of the back of some kind of manual maybe, with writing and diagrams scrawled all over the empty spaces. Written in small writing, she’d crammed line after line detailing events schedules down to what meals would be served when and what they were. Diagrams of what looked like the ship’s layout, access codes, passengers of note, members of Snow’s security detail, Snow’s security plans…

My eyes rested on a single sentence written at the top of one of the pages.

My name is Amy.

I carefully refolded the papers and tucked it into one of my pockets, pushing it deep enough it’d be safe from falling out. Perfect

#whg 14 #writeblr hunger games #cirrus #I figured I'd stop tagging some of the others now #since it's pretty far out now lol

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softboywriting · 5 years

Text

Enough | Shawn Mendes

Summary: You and Shawn have been together for almost a year and just recently the two of you have gone public. The backlash has been a nightmare and with a new single coming out it means you’ll be in the spotlight more than you’d like to be. To take precautions from the last time Shawn talked about you in an interview, Andrew provides a ‘Do Not Ask’ list of topics to interviewers. Some of them don’t like to listen to that list and you’ve finally had enough.

Word Count: 1.6k

|Masterlist In Bio|

“Alright, Shawn.” Andrew says and Shawn looks over from where he's sat on the couch with you in the DCC Radio Station lounge. “A couple things before you go on.”

“What’s up?”

Andrew holds up a paper. “This is the do not ask list and it includes your private life, love life or anything that isn't involving you and your music.”

“Oh great. Is this interviewer a problem?”

“Allegedly. I didn't know you were going to end up doing the interview with him. You were supposed to on with Chelle Chan not Patrick Anson. If he starts asking about your relationship or personal life shut him down immediately. This interview isn't live on air so if it needs to be re recorded it can be.”

Shawn groans and leans his head against your shoulder. “Awesome.”

“Shawn, you're needed in the booth.” A station employee says from the door and Shawn gets up, placing a kiss on your forehead.

“I'll see you in a few honey.”

“Mmm. Go on.” You wave him and Andrew off and relax into the sofa.

You look up from your phone a minute later and look at the mounted tv on the wall in front of you that's broadcasting a live feed of the recording from within the booth. Shawn takes his seat opposite Patrick and they greet each other.

“Alright we have the one and only Shawn Mendes in the studio today. How's it going man?”

“Great, really well. The single is doing phenomenally.”

“That's amazing, you're an incredibly talented artist. How's life treating you? Doing well? Healthy?”

Shawn smiles and you can hear it as he speaks. “Yeah, everything is great. I'm super happy, excited to be working on my next album and give everyone a taste with the new single.”

“What's your inspiration behind this song? It's an incredible blend of emotional and sexy.”

“Yeah, it is a really personal song. I think we sat down and just wrote it in like three hours it came so naturally. I am so proud of it.”

“Would you say your girlfriend is a big inspiration to your music?”

Shawn pauses and you look up from your phone again to stare at the screen. This interview was on thin ice now.

“She's great, incredibly supportive and understanding of my hectic life.” Shawn chuckles and smiles, brushing off the question as best as he can. “Yeah she's a huge inspiration to me every day.”

“Oh come on Shawn. Everyone wants to know more about her. She's three years older than you correct?”

“Uh, yeah.” His tone is no longer cheery and light.

You stand up with your arms crossed. Your stomach churns, someone had to stop this interview. This was going to make for a shit storm on social media and you weren't about to endure getting told horrible things for days on end again. There was a reason you were on the do no ask list and the backlash was precisely why.

“How's that going? Surely she's got a bit more experience than yourself in certain departments.Is this new song about her?”

“Ah,” he chuckles nervously and shakes his head. “That's really no one's business is it Patrick?”

Patrick laughs as if he doesn't seem to notice or care that Shawn isn't comfortable with this. You know Shawn might stop answering eventually but he's too nice to just get up and walk out or say something directly. You aren't though.

You head out the door as Patrick asks his next question. You don't hear all of it but it sounds like something along the lines of asking Shawn if he likes older women. You turn the corner and make a bee line straight for the recording booth. The door is unlocked and you ignore the recording in process light that's on overhead. You really don't give a shit. Someone says something to your left from the broadcast booth as you pass it but the hell if they are gonna stop you.

“What- oh! Look who it is!”

Shawn looks like he's gone pale as a ghost when he sees you take a seat in the chair beside him and pull the mic in front you closer. He can tell you're irritated. Patrick waves for the broadcast booth to turn the mic on for you.

“Hey Patrick,” you say in the most sickeningly sweet voice you can muster up.

“Hello! What an unexpected surprise. I had no idea you'd be here. I'd love to interview the two of-”

“I'm not here to interview. I just wanted to ask you a question.” You lean in closer to the mic and make direct eye contact with Patrick. “Can you read?”

“What? Of course I can read?”

“Can you read the first line on that list in front of you?”

Patrick looks down and chuckles nervously. “Do not ask questions about the following.”

“Uh huh. Go on.”

“Personal relationships. Private life. Family.”

You grin. “So you can read. So, tell me, why are you asking Shawn about me? I'm pretty sure I qualify as a personal relationship and that list was given to you for a reason.”

Patrick clears his throat. “I- uh. I didn't think-”

“No, you didn't read. You thought plenty when you had already been planning on asking these questions and decided to just do it anyways since you probably didn't have any others written down.”

“Babe,” Shawn says, reaching over to you and leaning away from his mic. “I got it.”

“Shawn no, you weren't shutting anything down, you were just indirectly answering. Andrew told you to shut him down if he asked about me. I'm not going through this again.”

Patrick leans in. “Is this a lovers quarrel on DCC Radio with the notorious good boy Shawn Mendes?”

You turn and glare at Patrick. “This interview is over. Maybe if you want to bring publicity to your station you should learn to respect people's boundaries and actually read a list when you're given one and stop trying to be a Howard Stern wannabe.”

The mic turns off suddenly with a crackle and the broadcast person calls for a cut just as Jake comes into the booth. You know he's there for you and you stand up to walk out without being removed. Shawn gets up and follows after you and Jake into the hall.

Shawn pulls you aside and crosses his arms. “Babe, what was that?”

“What? I can't stand up for myself?”

“I was handling it. I wasn't going to answer any more of his questions.”

“Really? Because I know how you are Shawn. You'll answer them indirectly thinking it's fine and then it's a shit storm of hate tweets toward me the next day. I'm on the do not ask list, that son of a bitch shouldn't even bring me up. You're here to promote your new single, not talk about your private life.”

“Andrew is going to be pissed.”

You throw your hands up and laugh sarcastically. “And what is Andrew gonna do to me? What? Nothing. I'm not the famous one here. If he wants to be pissed maybe he should be pissed at Patrick. He said if we had to we can record it again.”

Shawn unfolds his arms and puts his hands on your hips. “Y'know, this is exactly why I love you.”

“Because I don't care about Andrew?”

“No, because you don't take any shit.” He leans in and kisses you softly. “You're one of the strongest people I've ever met.”

You flush as he presses his forehead against yours. “You’re pretty strong too.”

“Physically, of course.”

“Hey,” you lay your hand on his cheek. “You fight with anxiety almost every day, and most days you overcome it. That's strength too.”

He closes his eyes and smiles, arms wrapping around you tightly. “I find that strength in you though. You make me want to be a better version of myself every day.”

“And you are.” You tilt your head forward and kiss him.

“Please come back in,” the broadcast manager says from the door to the booth. “Patrick is willing to apologize for his actions. We'll scrap the recording and start over. Please, we'd really like to have you on Shawn.”

You look over and Shawn looks down at you. “It's up to you.”

“Alright, I'll go talk to him again.” He kisses your forehead and gives you one last squeeze before heading toward the booth. “I'll be done in a few okay?”

“Okay.” You turn and walk down the hall with Jake.

Ten minutes later and you're in the lounge watching the rest of the interview when Andrew walks in and you glance over. He doesn't look thrilled.

“You can be pissed as you want at me,” you say, eyes going back to the tv screen.

“No, it's fine. Shawn wasn't shutting it down. I was about to go in when I saw you heading there. I just got off the phone with the studio executive about it. I'm glad it wasn't live.”

“You're not mad at me?”

Andrew chuckles. “Would you care if I was?”

“Not really.”

“I figured. I'm not mad at you though, I am pretty pissed about Patrick on the other hand. I talked to him directly about the list when I gave it to him.”

Shawn slips in the door behind Andrew and walks around to sit on the edge of the couch with you, his arm going around your back. “Are we good to go?”

“Yeah. We're good.”

You put your hand in Shawn's and he lifts it up to kiss it. “Thank you,” he murmurs as the two of you head out of the studio behind Jake and Andrew. “For being here with me.”

“I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.”

He presses his face into your hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

----

I did upload this early this morning under the title Strength but decided that I wanted to add some more to it after speaking with a friend. So if you did read it this morning, I have changed it up a bit and added some to it.

Thank you so much for reading. Please reblog and share!

-A

#shawn mendes #shawn mendes blurb #shawn mendes fic #shawn mendes fan fic #shawn mendes fan fiction #shawn mendes story #shawn mendes words #shawn mendes imagine #shawn mendes writing #shawn mendes one shot #shawn mendes oneshot #shawn mendes stories #shawn mendes fluff #shawn mendes fanfics #shawn mendes fics #shawn mendes imagines #shawn mendes non au #blurb #blurbs

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 5 years

Text

Follow Me Home (Part 6)

Summary: Dean and the reader take a detour with Hawkins to get his side of the story and figure out who to believe once and for all...

Pairing: Cop!Dean x reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 3,200ish

Warnings: language

A/N: Enjoy!…

______

“What?” said Hawkins ten minutes later, pulling out of the highway rest stop.

“Did you really have to steal a car?” said Dean from the passenger seat. “And insist on driving?”

“You just punched Dean in the face, Hawkins,” you said, crossing your arms.

“I’m sure he’s been punched before. He seems the type,” he said, getting onto a side road and heading South.

“I don’t think your dads like me very much,” laughed Dean, rubbing his face.

“Well most guys that knocks them right out so I guess you’re tougher than you look,” said Hawkins.

“Why’d you punch him,” you asked, pulling out your knife.

“Because he takes too long and I don’t have time for the cop to agree to taking a car we’ll be sure to give back. We need to get off the highway, off the road, and lay low for a minute. I haven’t slept in two days and I need to know we’re safe while I find a place to crash,” he said. “Now put that knife away before you hurt yourself, Y/N.”

You stared at him for a few minutes before you slipped it back into your pocket.

“Could-” started Dean, Hawkins turning on the radio and blasting the volume.

“No more talking.”

“I got to say, I preferred Jim’s cabin to this one,” said Dean, sitting down in a hard chair hours later, smiling when you grabbed some ice from the freezer for his face. “Thanks.”

“It’s a friend’s hunting cabin. Bare bones,” said Hawkins, walking around and pulling down some shades, locking the door and turning to where you and Dean sat at the small kitchen table. “I have a feeling you two are going to run off on me when I sleep.”

“Give us a reason to trust you and stay then,” said Dean. Hawkins reached behind himself and pulled out a handgun. He held it out grip first to Dean.

“He won’t think twice about killing her this time. Any of us. You make sure that doesn’t happen, understand?” he said.

“Yeah,” said Dean as he took it.

“Just get her back to her mother if it goes bad,” he said.

“Why?” asked Dean.

“I promised her a very long time ago I’d bring her home,” said Hawkins, heading into a backroom. “Give me a few hours, then I’ll answer whatever questions you have.”

You both waited for him to shut the door, Dean looking back at the gun in his hands.

“What do you think?” you asked. “Do you think his story makes sense?”

“He’s kind of a son of a bitch,” said Dean, looking over at the closed door. “But he feels...different. He’s scared but not like Jim was. If my daughter was kidnapped from me for 26 years, I probably wouldn’t be the most easy going guy either. We barely got his story so we’ll have to see on that front. What’s your gut telling you?”

“Hawkins is my father for sure. He looks too much like me. Jim is definitely the one that raised me from the time I was six though. You saw all the pictures at the cabin. I never knew the difference,” you said.

“Which one do you think tried to kill you?” Dean asked.

“Hawkins has shown he’s not afraid to be violent. And Jim left us both alive when he had us,” you said as you picked up Dean’s makeshift ice pack again. “If we’re looking at facts alone, I think Hawkins is more untrustworthy.”

“Funny. The facts are telling me Hawkins would rather throw himself off a cliff than ever harm you,” said Dean.

“What do you mean?” you asked, Dean leaning into your touch.

“Sure, he hates me. I don’t blame him. It sounds like someone grabbed you at the hospital you were born at. The cops probably let him down over and over again and there’s resentment there. But you, he’s gentler with you. He’s trying to be nicer to me, for you. Y/N, he’s an ex-super solider. You’ve seen him. I’m not a wimp and he could kick both our asses without batting an eye. But he’s trying, for you. If we can confirm a baby was taken from a hospital, belonging to your mom and Hawkins, I think...I think maybe we can be a little inclined to believe him,” said Dean.

“I thought I believed Jim. Now I don’t know who to believe besides you,” you said.

“We’ll figure it out. Why don’t you take a nap, sweetheart, while I keep an eye on him, okay?” said Dean.

You nodded, giving his forehead a kiss as you made your way over to the lumpy couch.

“Hey,” said Dean, shaking on your shoulder. “Hawkins is up.”

“My name is John by the way,” he grumbled, digging through your cooler that’d been brought in. “Were you two planning on surviving off of jerky and gummy bears?”

“We were going to stop for food,” said Dean.

“Benny’ll be pissed,” mumbled Hawkins, going to a door and returning with a frozen slab of meat. “I hope you two like cured venison.”

You made a face, Hawkins smirking at it as he turned back to the stove.

“It’s not that bad, honey. Oh and hey, cop,” he said, waving Dean over.

“It’s Dean,” he said, stepping over carefully.

“Well, Dean, you mind poking through the cupboards? I’m sure there’s some plates around here somewhere,” said Hawkins.

Dean eventually found some silverware while Hawkins dumped some chunks of venison in a pot with some beans on the stove. He said it’d be done in about an hour, not that it looked all that appetizing.

“So,” said Hawkins as he sat down at the table across from you and Dean. “I’ll take fact that I didn’t wake up arrested or dead as a good sign.”

“You tell us your version of the story, then Y/N and I will decide if we believe you or not. Got it?” said Dean.

“Where would you like me to start?” he asked, taking a deep breath.

“The beginning,” said Dean.

“Of what? This mess? My rollercoaster of a marriage? My career? The assholes that took her?” he said.

“You and my mom,” you said, his face turning softer. He bit his bottom lip but nodded.

“I met your mom when I was on a weekend pass from duty. I guess...I was never much for school. I grew up in a military family. My dad, his dad, so on. I joined straight out of high school. I was in the army, then army rangers, then went to sniping school and then the rest you technically need a clearance for but I joined a black ops team. I was very, very good at what I did. My parents were both gone by that time. Family was never much of a thing for us. Relationships were off the table. Until I was at a bar one night and met Lila. She was...she looks like some delicate flower but she’ll kick your ass without a bat of her eye. You remind me of her,” said Hawkins, glancing down at his lap.

“So you met a girl and fell in love?” asked Dean.

“Yes. I never told her details of things of I’ve done, not in the beginning. But I broke down one night, told her my dirty secrets, people I’d killed. Strangely, she just smiled and said it was okay. I wasn’t the monster I thought I’d turned into. She saved me. She taught me how to be my own person again. I left the military, took up a job doing house renos, became a general contractor and we got married. We decided to have a baby. We were happy. It went smooth, the little girl popped out like that. Lila was fine and you were fine. I love your mother but I knew I could never love her as much as I loved you. So we had you about a day and then, you went to the nursery and you never came back.

“I’ve seen some horrible things but that takes the cake. You just feel so helpless. The police assured us they’d find you, find who took you. We went home without you and a day went by, another day, a week. We had one picture of you. This was before phones were everywhere. We just had the one. We put up signs and it was on the news and we got our friends to help. I even got my old military friends to help hunt you down. We never found you. Eventually we were told that we should be happy because a newborn meant they might not kill you, might not do horrible things to you as you grew up. We should think on the positive side that maybe we’d get lucky and you’d have a normal life with whoever took you. We tried to get through it. Lila and I started to fight, a lot though. We took a break away from each other for a few months. I spent years searching for you, driving around this whole damn country. Sometimes I stayed away just so I wouldn’t have to see her. We lasted about four years until we thought about divorce. We were miserable.

“But we had a long night of talking and decided our daughter would probably be pretty ashamed of us if she saw how we were. So we started to go on dates again, fall back in love. You weren’t the subject of every conversation. We still looked but we started to stop drowning in it so much. We tried for a family again. You have younger brothers even. One’s 22, in his senior year at Ole Miss. Your other little brother is 19. He’s at Notre Dame. We never stopped looking sweetheart, not once. I promise. But we had to try and live again before it was too late. We spent 26 years looking for you and then you walked straight into my lap,” he said.

“Why were you at a bar on a Monday night?” you asked, Hawkins wearing a half-smile.

“Lila does a spin class girls night thing with her friends on Monday nights. Both your brothers are away at school right now...I’m not perfect, Y/N. Sometimes when I’m on my own, I just want to forget for a little while,” he said. “Lawrence isn’t that far a drive from Kansas City. It’s easier to get shitfaced out where no one knows you.”

“How’d you find out about Jim Jones?” asked Dean.

“Maybe about six months after Y/N was taken. The cops started looking at me as a suspect. There were police reports of me allegedly doing stuff to kids up in the Dakotas. I’ve never even been there. But the stuff looked real and the cops turned on me, on us. It took some digging and a few favors from some of those old friends but I found out about Jim Jones. I didn’t understand at first, never understood really, not until I saw you Monday night. It all started to click, who this father you were complaining about was. He took you. That was it, that had to have been why. But I did some digging and he never had a child, not until some six year old popped up in his life. Well, I did some more digging earlier this week and found a six year old had gone missing a few months prior in Lawrence. I found out who the mother was, found out she was dead, got the story, started putting it together. She was Jones’ old girl. Only she couldn’t have a kid so he’d ditched her. I figure she went nuts and stole one so she could win him back. Years go by and he finally responds to her again, he comes down, spews her some bullshit story about needing to take you away and lying about it, promises in a few months time she’ll come up with him and the kid. But he only wanted the kid so he gets rid of the woman and raises Y/N as his own.”

“If he wanted a kid so bad, why not just freaking adopt one?” you asked. “Or hook up with some chick?”

“He can’t have kids, can he,” said Dean with a smile.

“Nope,” said Hawkins as he returned it. “Figure out the rest of it?”

“There’s something in his past that would prevent him from adopting a child, isn’t there,” said Dean.

“It’s sealed under a juvie record but yeah. He practically killed a kid he bullied when he was a teenager. He’s kind of a psychopath. It’s how he’s so successful actually. But if someone were to do a background check, they’d see it and he’d be declined,” said Hawkins.

“Why didn’t we see it then?” said Dean.

“You didn’t search the juvenile database and sealed records I bet. You wouldn’t have a reason to,” said Hawkins. “But I hate the guy’s guts so I went all out. My working theory is he wanted a kid, probably wasn’t ever going to do anything about it, but this chick that was infatuated with him stole Y/N for him. Jimbo saw it as the kid he wanted and then cleaned up the mess.”

“Why would he want a kid though? As far as I remember, he never hurt me,” you said. “Up until sometime Monday night at least.”

“Kids are nice, they make you happier. If he’s as fucked up as I think he is, he probably wanted a child to help keep him relatively normal. You probably did do that for him...up until the part where you started to figure out he was being shady,” he said.

“What are you thinking, Y/N? We’ve heard a lot of stories the past two days,” said Dean.

“Let me see your wallet,” you said. Hawkins reached into his back pocket and set it on the table. You flipped it open, his license saying he lived in Kansas City and he was an organ donor. You skimmed through the cards, finding two pictures tucked into a pocket. One was recent, four people standing in it, Hawkins, an older woman who had the same hair color as you, and two young men. The other picture was worn away at the edges and was creased all over the place, a baby in a pink hat staring back.

“We’re your parents. We’re supposed to protect you and we let you down. I understand if you want nothing to do with us when this is all over. We’re strangers to you. But let us find a safe place for you until Jim is caught or dead. I prefer dead but I’ll take what I can,” he said.

“Dean says we can’t kill him,” you said.

“I said you can’t kill him, Y/N,” said Dean. “Last time we talked about this, we were talking about killing John here.”

“Well I guess what happens next is which father you believe,” said Hawkins.

“I know which father I believe,” you said, handing him back his wallet. “Dean.”

You both stood up, Hawkins staying seated as you went over to the side of the cabin.

“It’s another story,” said Dean. “It makes sense and I didn’t hear him slip up on any facts. But still, he could just be a good liar too.”

“If you had to pick,” you said, Dean looking over at Hawkins.

“I know who I pick,” he said. You nodded and went over to the table, Hawkins turning in his chair.

“If I asked you not to kill Jim, what would you say?” you asked.

“I’d say you’re a better person than I am,” he said. “Most people are better than I am, Y/N.”

“I think you and Dean will get along quite a bit once this all settles down,” you said, giving him a smile.

“How’d you wind up with a Lawrence cop for a boyfriend anyways?” he asked.

“It was a quick relationship,” you said.

“Yesterday we weren’t even dating,” said Dean with a chuckle.

“I will try not to kill Jim but I will if I have to,” said Hawkins. “If the cop is okay with that.”

“I don’t condone murder,” said Dean, lifting his chin.

“You’ve killed someone before,” said Hawkins, looking him up and down, Dean swallowing. “Trust me. You sleep easier when the person’s gone.”

“I don’t think I ever said I don’t want him to not die. He did try to kill me after all,” you said.

“Well that settles that then. We kill him if we have to,” said Hawkins. He stared at you for a moment, looking you up and down.

“What?” you asked.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, a sad smile on his face. “So aside from the cop boyfriend and the tendency to be kidnapped, do you...do you remember much else about yourself you’re willing to share?”

“I’m an architect apparently,” you said, Hawkins breaking out into a laugh.

“No shit! That’s what Kyle’s going to school for. He’s the youngest,” said Hawkins, chuckling and you saw how much gentler he looked with a smile on his face. “Your brothers are going to be so excited to meet you.”

“Let’s save the family reunion for when it’s over. We don’t need more liabilities,” said Dean. “Speaking of which, after what is probably going to be one of the worst dinners of all of our lives, we need to get somewhere with cell service. I need to catch up with Sam and hopefully that kid is smart enough to have already sent some protection down for your sons or he’s bringing them up to our station.”

“We’re on the same side?” asked Hawkins as he stood.

“We always were,” said Dean with a nod. “We got a long drive ahead of us and Jim will probably be in Lawrence waiting for us by the time we get there. You have to let us call some of the shots though, agreed?”

“Alright,” said Hawkins, going to the stove and turning it off. He grabbed the pot and opened the back door, tossing it outside before he returned. “We’ll run through a drive thru. We need to get her home.”

“Let’s get going then.”

_____

A/N: Read the Final Part here!

#supernatural #spn #dean x reader #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean #winchester #dean spn #au #cop!dean x reader #series

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 3 years

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Episode 38 Review: Of Zombies and Men

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 }

{ Full Synopses/Recaps: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

Damn, Jacques is hot in that scene! There. I just had to say that before starting this review.

Hello and welcome again to my Garden of Evil, which I have once again been neglecting. Long story short: the past month has been both terrifying (for what should be obvious reasons) and very, very busy, and I’ve been spending more of my free time offline than usual focusing on things like starting vegetables for my real-life garden. I don’t foresee things getting better for at least another month, so most likely either I won’t be very active or my muse will be more active than ever. If the latter, it may mean more reviews or it may mean more silliness like the Desmond Hall personality quiz from earlier this week. We shall see.

But, for right now, shall we jump into our exploration of Episode 38?

Wait! Quito didn’t leave the chandelier hanging on the table before!

The table (post-séance) from Episode 36, for comparison.

Another night has passed on Maljardin (as indicated by Jean Paul Desmond's change in clothing) and now someone has hung the chandelier on the side of the broken séance table where it wasn't in either of the previous two episodes. "Keeping this here as a souvenir, Jean Paul?" the Reverend Matthew Dawson, who is still wearing the same outfit as two episodes ago, asks.

"No, Reverend," Jean Paul corrects him, but forgets to tell him who put the chandelier back on the table and why. Instead, he tells him that there will be another séance.

Matt accuses him of playing with their lives and he responds with what sounds like a veiled threat: "Come now, Reverend, this is no game. Surely, superstitions and fears are not going to blacken your learned convictions. All of our days are numbered." Yes, Jean Paul's in pissy passive-aggressive mode and he will remain there for most of the next three weeks. This is one of the reasons why I prefer Jacques Eloi des Mondes. He may be THE DEVIL and he certainly has his own nasty, passive-aggressive side, but he doesn't go around glowering like his descendant and he takes himself less seriously. His death threats are also way funnier than Jean Paul’s. On top of that, he has that stunning cape that he once wore to the main island, which I miss horribly. I can’t see Jean Paul moping around on Maljardin while wearing that gorgeous number, which is a pity because it looked so good on him.

Just noticed while re-watching the episode that Matt has a pompadour now. I'm going to go ahead and guess the reason based on evidence from Episode 7: he's trying to level with the groovy swingers and keep up with what's happenin', but he's too square to realize the hairstyle he's adopted in his efforts to be happenin' is ten years out of date. (I’m sure I used at least two of these outdated slang terms incorrectly. Forgive me.)

Jean Paul lying to cover up Jacques’ attempted murder. Also, a pretty shot of Fox-C’s eyes!

To no viewers’ surprise, Jean Paul is planning on holding another séance, and another, and another, until he finally establishes contact with his late wife Erica. This angers Matt, who has been a loose cannon since Episode 35 and is due to fire again soon. “You forget the medium said death points only to me!” the lovesick, grieving billionaire shouts and storms away before Matt gets another chance to air his grievances against him.

We next see him in the crypt, telling Quito to have the table and the chandelier repaired ASAP. And then he gets a moment alone with Erica’s cryonics capsule and he says this interesting, cryptic aside:

Is he only saying that because of Jacques’ frequent possessions, or does he have another reason to mistrust himself? Lines like this one make me think that maybe Dan’s suspicions are correct and he did murder Erica.

Matt grows bored waiting for Jean Paul to return, so he visits Alison in the lab. Wearing a stylish blue labcoat, she is reading through Dr. Menkin’s notes on her sister Erica and confides in Matt about her despair that she has found so few of them.

Alison and Matt in the lab.

Their conversation in this scene is quite interesting. First, she reveals that Dr. Menkin has been researching cellular reconstruction and that, using his notes (especially the missing parts), it might actually be possible to bring Erica back to life. This means that there’s a chance that it was reasonable from an in-universe scientific standpoint--if still somewhat ethically questionable--for Jean Paul to freeze Erica.

Second, she denies Matt’s accusation that Jean Paul is treating them like chattel, replying, "What you forget is his love for Erica, his need for her is what drives him, not purposeful harm to others." Has she developed Stockholm Syndrome towards Jacques/Jean Paul during her time on the island? This line makes me wonder.

Their conversation drifts to Vangie’s accident, which reminds Alison to check on her! They find Vangie in the Great Hall, walking down the stairs in her Conjure Woman robes, her arms stretched out before her in standard zombie fashion. Because she isn’t watching where she’s going and is just staring blankly, Alison guides her down the stairs and onto the couch to prevent any further injuries. At the end of the scene, Quito comes to check on her and lets out a silent scream before covering his face: most likely as a subtle cue to new audience members that the silent servant in the earlier scene in the crypt is, like Vangie, a zombie.

Alison guiding Vangie to the couch.

But can we really compare Vangie’s state to Quito’s? In book canon, Quito was one of Jacques’ slaves, whom he killed and then had resurrected to punish Raxl for disobedience. The show canon never states how Quito became a zombie, but we do know that he is undead based on his lack of a pulse in Episode 33 and Jean Paul’s reference to “a soulless corpse” in Episode 16. Vangie, in contrast, is still alive, but behaves like a zombie (allegedly) because of a brain injury caused by the crashing chandelier. Oddly enough, her body language and behavior are more in line with a stereotypical Hollywood zombie than Quito, which makes me wonder how the hell she was able to put her Conjure Woman robes back on while in a cataleptic trance. (I bet it’s just another continuity error, like the chandelier hanging off the side of the table.)

There’s a brief scene here where Matt opens one of the cabinet drawers in the lab and pulls out one of Alison’s scalpels. I don’t understand why she doesn’t keep that drawer locked on such a dangerous island.

In his and Raxl’s bedroom, Quito mixes Vangie a potion using herbs from the island to attempt to bring her out of her catatonic state. He tastes the potion and nods as though to say, "Yes, it tastes right.” Even so, it doesn't appear to have any effect on him after he tastes it, which is strange. I don’t know how to interpret this scene. It could mean anything from “the antidote only works on living people” to “the antidote only works on people who were turned into zombies the way Vangie was (and Quito was not)” to “Quito drank this same potion years ago, and that’s why he can move around, think, and feel and isn’t stuck in a catatonic state like Vangie.”

The ambiguity makes this yet another unexplained plot point in a show overflowing with them, thanks to the change in writers and producer. I want to give Robert Costello and the team of writers who wrapped up Maljardin the benefit of the doubt and say that perhaps they ignored this plot hole because Ian Martin’s notes were partially missing like Dr. Menkin’s, but most of the evidence suggests that they consciously chose to go in a different direction than the one that Martin originally intended. We know that, from Episode 30 onward, executive meddling forced him to change and rearrange events in his episodes. There is that one line from Episode 54 that reminds me of what I believe were his original intended revelations about Erica, but I suspect that I’m over-analyzing a line for which Cornelius Crane probably intended a different, less unusual interpretation than mine.

Anyway, while Quito is downstairs, Jean Paul and Jacques have this amusing exchange:

Jean Paul: "You were the disrupting influence at that séance." Jacques: "I? Do I resemble a part of the chandelier that came crashing down?"

I think you can guess where this leads. Jacques possesses him, and this time the resulting scene is the most deliciously evil one we’ve seen yet of his character:

Just after possession, zombie Vangie identifies Jacques as Lucifer, and he confirms this. Since the first episode, we have heard Raxl say repeatedly that Jacques Eloi des Mondes was THE DEVIL, but at last we have confirmation that Ian Martin’s Jacques is, even after the beginning of executive meddling.

“Devil he is. Devil he will remain till I can exorcise and destroy him,” she adds, still in a trance and still with her eyes fixed forward.

“But aren’t you finding him too powerful for all of us?” Jacques replies.

“In the end, it is we who will be too strong for him.”

“But you are already losing all the battles.” Jacques smirks and leans closer to Vangie, as my heart--and the hearts of half the original audience--skips a beat. “Look at you now, Vangie. Look at you now, able to talk only with me because, like Quito, you are living in his...half-world.” (Does this mean that Quito can speak to him, too, when they are alone and Jacques allows it?) “Who put you there?”

“Fear not. He cannot kill me. My death is ordained.”

“He hasn’t killed you,” Jacques grins. “Who knows? Maybe in your present state, you will be able to reach Erica.”

“I didn’t want to reach her for myself, but for you, Jean Paul.” (Why does she identify him as Jean Paul now, when she called him Lucifer a minute ago? Jacques hasn’t de-possessed Jean Paul yet.)

Quietly, Alison and Matt enter undetected, as she continues. “The demon Jacques Eloi des Mondes, his evil was at the table. It was his alien presence that destroyed the séance.”

She lies back down on the couch, Jacques yells her name and grabs her, and Alison breaks her silence. “Jean Paul!” she shouts, rushing over to Vangie. “Leave her be!” Jacques demands that she bring her out of the trance, but Alison says that she doesn’t know how. He shoots down her suggestion that she take her to the mainland for treatment.

“It’s mystifying to hear her talk as though you were that man, an ancestor three hundred years dead,” Matt comments, pointing to Jacques’ portrait.

“The islanders are very superstitious with strange fancies,” Jacques gaslights him. “You’re not joining that group, are you, Reverend?”

“I may join them, too,” says Alison.

“Perhaps you all need therapy, or some other kind of treatment,” Jacques says as the camera zooms into his face. He starts off with a fairly neutral Jean Paul expression--he’s been getting better at imitating his descendant--but then widens his eyes in that way only Jacques does. It's not quite Bissits Face™, but it is a very Jacques expression nonetheless.

After the commercial break, Matt asks for some clarification as to what he meant by treatment. “Relief of tension, as at a séance,” he responds with a smile.

Another argument about séances is about to erupt when Quito walks up holding a cup of his herbal remedy. Jacques identifies this as “a pinch of hope, a dash of witchcraft, a hint of prayer, as harmless as Quito himself is.” Surprisingly, despite knowing that this will take Vangie out of her trance, he lets Alison serve it to her.

When Vangie recovers, she, too, insists--also surprisingly--that they have another séance. “It’s Jean Paul Desmond himself who risks all,” she tells Matt when he accuses her of endangering the guests’ lives. Alison has Matt take her upstairs to rest while she heads to the lab to grab a tranquilizer.

Meanwhile, in the lab...

A secret door behind the cabinet opens and Jacques comes out, carrying more of Dr. Menkin’s notes. When he hears Alison’s footsteps, he shuts the door (but not all the way--oops!) and leaves them on the table. After a brief conversation about Vangie, he leaves through the lab’s main entrance and Alison flips excitedly through the newly discovered notes.

My favorite shot of Alison from this scene.

The Lost Episode summary for this episode from The Newport Daily News mentions the secret door--indicating that it appeared in the original script for the episode--but also that Vangie knows about it and that Jacques will leave her alone during the second séance if she keeps it secret. Another version of the summary from the Minneapolis Star (November 5, 1969) says that the hidden door leads to “a secret passageway,” begging the question of where Jacques has hidden the notes. It must be somewhere between the Great Hall and the lab, but where?

You know, I’m surprised that, for all Raxl and Quito’s searching for the conjure doll and the silver pin and Alison, Dan, and Matt’s searching for the missing cyanide, they haven’t found more of the château’s secret rooms and passages. It’s just as inexplicable as how Jacques still doesn’t know the location of the Temple of the Serpent after three hundred years, hours of spying on people in the crypt, and that failed investigation of it with Holly last episode--and the Temple’s entrance isn’t even well-hidden! On a show set on an absurdly cold tropical island with anachronistic period costumes, 20-year-olds who look 30 but get turned away from the bar without being carded, white Incas, a white voodoo priest and priestesses, and a man with an IQ of 187 knowingly placing a glass table beneath a loose chandelier--and that’s only listing what we’ve seen so far--this stretches my willing suspension of disbelief more than anything else.

Right at the end of the episode, we learn from Jacques that Jean Paul’s will to resist him has become stronger, making possession of him more difficult:

Does Jean Paul’s stronger will explain all the headache faces?

Coming up next: A piece of the Conjure Man’s message reminds Raxl of Jacques’ pirate ship, which gives us the perfect opportunity to explore Jacques’ former career.

{<- Previous: Episode 37 || Next: Episode 39 ->}

#strange paradise #ian martin #maljardin arc #week 8 #episode 38 #review #analysis #continuity errors #genuinely scary episodes #hot as hell (best of jacques)#lost episode summaries #1960s slang #oh erica #the seance table #unexplained plot point #zombies

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

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Thatcher/Lesion oneshot in which Lesion has a tattoo and Thatcher hates it. (Rating T, fierce denial and fluff I suppose, ~2.5k words) - dedicated to @glazkov-smile who put this ship into my brain where it now festers and grows shakes fist

The first time Thatcher catches a glimpse of it, all he feels – curiously enough – is betrayal.

No part of it makes sense, it’s neither his body nor his decision and yet it’s as if he’s been deceived in some way, left in the dark about a topic concerning him personally. It’s irrelevant how nonsensical his emotions are because they’re there regardless and no amount of logical arguing with himself is able to make them vanish. He can’t rationalise it even if he tries, and he tries desperately. He’s merely being a judgemental old fart, probably, something he’s been called before in differing contexts. But he doesn’t know how to deal with it.

It was no longer than a second: Bandit pulled on the back of Lesion’s collar to drop an ice cube into his shirt, and Thatcher just happened to look over at the commotion and saw colour lick at the back of Lesion’s neck, usually hidden by whatever garish shirt the man inexplicably chose to wear that day but now revealed in a flash of ink. And it’s enough to conjure up a profound disappointment in Thatcher.

They’ve known each other for years now, stayed in contact where Smoke exchanged irregular messages which taper off now and then, only to rekindle once in a blue moon. No, Thatcher and Lesion wrote and called almost every week, given their work permitted it, left messages on a variety of media depending on their current location and sent each other postcards even, both of them carefully and happily maintaining an unlikely friendship. They differ in many regards though not the most important ones, and thus remained pointed towards each other like magnets. Friendships like this one are rare, Thatcher has come to understand this all too keenly.

And he can’t stand tattoos.

To him, they’re much worse than gaudy jewellery, flamboyant clothes and unnaturally dyed hair together – not only are they alarmingly permanent but also usually horribly tacky. Who cares if someone managed to father a child? Congratulations, they fulfilled their purpose the way nature intended, no need to plaster their kid’s heartbeat or birth date or entire bloody face all over their arms and legs and basically rub it under everyone’s nose. He doesn’t care to know the names of people’s partners nor is he interested in cringy quotes or supposedly deep and symbolic bullshit which allegedly holds so much meaning for its bearer. They’re ugly. They mar skin instead of decorating it.

He much prefers freckles, scars, stretch marks, hair, natural discolouration, any sort of blemish which tells him this person is alive and breathing and not airbrushed or genetically engineered to look this way. He doesn’t care tattoos have been around forever, to him they’re a disgrace and can erase all his interest in someone. Can, and have.

Thinking back, he’s fairly sure he ranted about this to Lesion’s face before, was met with the usual calm patience tinged with amusement whenever he complains about something at length, earned no more than a half-reply implying his position was at best a bit too extreme and at worst complete and utter dogshite in Lesion’s opinion. He’s never dismissive about it, merely pokes fun but ultimately chooses to respect Thatcher’s views which is probably one of the reasons why they’re still friends.

So when he catches sight of precise strokes lining Lesion’s back, Thatcher is appalled. Indignant. Offended, even.

He needs to see it.

Just like he demands details about all the unnecessary so-called ‘apps’ most people around him use so he can judge them accordingly, curiosity grips him in its iron hold and compels him to view the entire disaster Lesion immortalised on his body for reasons unknown. Maybe it’s linked to a previous partner, a family member, a time in Lesion’s life about which Thatcher knows nothing yet, something deeply personal – in which case he’ll still disapprove of the ink but possibly gain more insight into his friend’s past. In that case, it’d be a worthwhile endeavour despite the knowledge of what exactly is tainting Lesion’s skin. He won’t be able to unsee it afterwards.

“Do you want to fight?”, he interrupts Lesion’s current conversation and gets a good-natured laugh from his friend and a concerned look from Ying in return.

“I thought we agreed not to argue politics in the workplace anymore”, Lesion replies cheerfully and moves his toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other, Thatcher’s gaze following its journey momentarily.

“You said you were a little rusty in whatever fancy martial arts style you always torture the recruits with, so I thought you could use a refresher.”

“It’s much too warm to fight”, Ying points out and Thatcher barely bites back a response along the lines of that’s the point.

Lesion ignores her statement and leans back in his lawn chair, one of Rainbow’s most sought after commodity in summer – ants are prevalent and therefore sitting in the grass ill-advised. “Even if I did, I’d go to Yumiko and not you – no offence.”

“I bet you’ve been doing it for longer than she has.”

“Possibly, but she’s still lengths better.” The younger man raises an amused eyebrow. “Mike, are you bored?”

Oh. It’s the perfect excuse, his entire team is known for their eccentric solutions to boredom as well as striking fear into everyone’s heart as soon as it looks like they’ve got nothing to do. “Yes”, he lies smoothly, “so you can either join me willingly or spend the rest of the day anticipating a non-consensual fight. I’ll know when you least expect it, Tze Long.”

“Sounds like you don’t have a choice at all”, Ying sighs, shaking her head. “Men.”

“Don’t pretend you wouldn’t jump on the opportunity to roll through the mud with Elena, my dear”, Lesion comments casually after which neither of the two stick around for long enough to watch her turn crimson and splutter at the accusation. “So, tell me. Was this a misguided rescue mission or do you need my help with anything embarrassing?”

Thatcher blinks at the unexpected question until he realises his excuse sounds so terribly flimsy Lesion didn’t buy it for a second, correctly assuming an ulterior motive. Even if he’s nowhere near guessing it. “Oh, neither. I really just – it was a genuine suggestion and I…” He trails off when crinkles appear around dark eyes.

“Aren’t we a little too old to kill time by beating each other up? Let’s go drink some green tea to cool down instead, shall we?”

His objection dies on his tongue as his friend turns away, wearing a small smile. “I don’t even like green tea”, Thatcher protests quietly yet trails after Lesion nonetheless.

“Let’s go swimming.”

Lesion pauses visibly, marks his spot on the page he’s currently on and then glances up sceptically. “Now?”

Yes, Thatcher almost blurts out but catches himself just in time, checks his watch and pretends like he didn’t completely lose track of the hours ticking by purely because of Lesion’s presence. It’s a common occurrence, oddly enough. “Of course not”, he scoffs, “but what about tomorrow?”

“Where is this coming from? We’ve never gone for a swim together, you prefer going alone.” Fortunately, there’s no suspicion in his voice, only curiosity.

“I just thought you might want to join me. When’s the last time you went swimming?”

“Yesterday. Meghan invited me.”

Ah. Thatcher squints before he can help himself – they probably spent the time showing off their respective tattoos, and for some reason this thought makes it worse than as if Lesion had gone with anyone else. Even Blackbeard. “Well. If you don’t want to, that’s fine”, he concludes curtly and directs his attention back to the book in his own lap, fighting down another wave of dismay. So others are allowed to see it, apparently, where he’d not even been aware of it at all.

“What? Of course we can go, I was just surprised -”

“Nah. Nevermind.”

“Mike.” There’s gentle exasperation in Lesion’s voice now and he leans forward in the armchair which has become basically his over the course of several months – it bears his imprint and smells of him. Not that Thatcher would know. “I didn’t say no.”

“I’m busy tomorrow anyway”, he lies through his teeth and wonders whether he sounds cranky.

Lesion silently examines him for a few seconds longer, expression unreadable, and finally shrugs. “Alright. If you do want to go, just let me know.”

The doors of his wardrobe have mirrors. It’s the perfect plan. Thatcher buys the Dutch beer Lesion likes so much, and while Maestro is in the middle of listing all the exotic animals he’s eaten in his life with Smoke listening intently (and probably adding quite a few to his bucket list), while Mute snitches on Bandit’s newest plan to Sledge, while Sledge pointedly ignores Maestro’s hand slowly creeping up his thigh – while all of them are gathered in Thatcher’s living room, he makes sure to spill some of it down Lesion’s back.

“Whoops”, he says after his friend has jumped up with an undignified noise of surprise and hopes dearly that either none of the others watched him very deliberately tip his bottle or that they at least know to keep their mouths shut. “Come on, let’s get you something else to wear.”

“Why did we even stay in if I end up smelling like pub anyway”, Lesion complains weakly on the way to the bedroom, lamenting the wasted drink and accepting the fresh t-shirt Thatcher presses into his hands. “Thanks. You can go ahead.”

Thatcher pauses, hovering uncertainly. This – isn’t how it’s supposed to go. The last time, Lesion undressed in front of him without any qualms and he hoped it would be the same now, positioned his friend between himself and the mirrors so he’d get a good look no matter what. “I, uh -”

“Do you want to watch me change?”, Lesion asks, audibly entertained.

“No, I just – you probably need a towel, right? To get rid of the beer.”

“Sure”, the younger man agrees easily and Thatcher nods more to himself than for his benefit, leaves the room and dashes as soon as he’s out of eyesight. He’s never fetched a wet towel faster in his life, hoping to at least see part of it if Lesion’s in the middle of undressing, yet when he returns, Lesion is still wearing his soaked shirt. As well as a meaningful smirk. “Thank you, Mike. I’ve got it from here.”

No, he’s not going to let this opportunity pass. “Are you sure you don’t need help with your back?”

“Do you want to see it that badly?”

Oh.

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Your personal vendetta against my shirts. It took me a few days to realise why so many of them ended up ruined, stained, ripped or threatened. You’ve not seen it before, have you?”

He hasn’t been that obvious. Has he? Thatcher considers denying everything but his curiosity prevails, triumphs over the prospect of never living this down. Defeated, he shakes his head, prepares for the inevitable ribbing yet is merely awarded with Lesion’s fingers reaching up to unbutton his soiled shirt, a gesture so hypnotising all speech evades him.

“I didn’t know you were that interested”, Lesion comments nonchalantly as if the temperature in the room hadn’t just jumped up a few degrees – or maybe Thatcher is experiencing a heatwave, yet whatever it is, his face is burning.

“I’m not”, he replies petulantly and is in the middle of justifying all his actions to himself in his head when the piece of fabric drops, carelessly gets discarded, and then Lesion turns.

It’s -

Well, it’s large, first of all, covering the entirety of his back and seemingly continuing even below the waistband of his trousers, just shy of curling all the way around his ribs. The ink is vibrant and mesmerising, no part of Lesion’s natural skin colour visible between all the vivid colours crassly at odds with everything Thatcher considers desirable. To him, it looks more like a yakuza tattoo than anything else, the motif of a roaring tiger familiar yet kept in a more tasteful style, no cartoonish bulging eyes or exaggerated features. Part of it is shiny with moisture, making it look even more recent and amplifying the otherworldly feel of it.

And it’s still a tattoo, even if the fact that it’s Lesion’s back changes something about it; even if the outline of his shoulder blades, the dip of his lower back, the gently curved spine do something to Thatcher, its nature remains intact. He doesn’t know why anyone would choose to deface their natural beauty like this, would spend a horrendous amount of money on something this hideous, would endure a million needle pricks only to look like this.

He also has no idea why he can’t stop staring.

A detail catches his attention and, without thinking, he lifts his hand and brushes over the tiger’s face with a thumb, the skin warm and slightly sticky. “He’s got a scar below his eye”, Thatcher murmurs and fights hard to keep this odd, uncalled-for reverent tone out of his voice.

“Do you want to watch him dance?”, Lesion asks him quietly and his brain is too occupied to process his words, discern the meaning behind them because – surely, he’s not -

The air is thick around them and it’s not only a byproduct of the season; it’s not stuffy yet heavy nonetheless, struggles against Thatcher’s deep inhale. His other fingers join his thumb in resting on intricate swirls, scared to move in case they smudge the ornate ink. “What do you mean?”, he hears himself mumble, possibly hoping for a repetition only, not even a clarification.

“Oh. Nevermind.” Lesion’s reply is soft and it sounds like he’s grinning. “I’m glad you seem to like it though.”

“I don’t”, Thatcher protests immediately and withdraws his hand, suddenly light-headed with the rush of oxygen, air flooding his lungs, returned to normal from one second to the next.

His friend throws him a look over his shoulder and he really looks like the Cheshire cat for some reason, as if he’s having the time of his life and Thatcher feels like he missed something somewhere along the way. “Alright”, Lesion agrees readily.

They get him cleaned up and into Thatcher’s shirt without any more interruptions, but when he turns to leave, the Brit holds him back yet falters at the expectant, amused and open smile with which the gesture is met.

“How about”, he begins, suddenly sheepish, “we go swimming this weekend?”

And to his relief, Lesion nods immediately, grinning and extremely pleased with the suggestion. “Of course. I’d love to.”

#rainbow six siege #thatcher #lesion #thatcher/lesion #fanfic #oneshot #had I known I'd get myself stuck I never would've encouraged you #all it took was those 1k words you wrote #I already have more ideas #crying

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noelclover · 5 years

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Off The Cuff 07/05/2019

Read a gaming article, want to post about it: It’s about game journalists. So I guess...

Ranty.

As per usual I copy pasta paragraphs and argue against them by typing them out in an attempt to rid myself of the headaches. Moving past the Event Hubs bit:

> EventHubs is just the latest battleground for a much larger and divisive issue: Who gets to be a games journalist? Some players believe the industry’s reporters should be particularly competent (if not masterful) at practically every game they cover. They must be a gamer among gamers, one that lives, breathes, and devours gaming 24 hours a day.

🍀 Not quite true. Particularly competent implies that you have to be good at the game, which isn’t what most gamers expect out of games journalists when they review a game. What is expected is some level of competency that can be considered somewhat “average”. If you play “Prinny Can I Really Be The Hero Dude?” and die 999 times, unable to finish the game and then tell me it’s a really hard game because the fights are a pain in the ass and you couldn’t move your thumb anymore from the button mash, hey, I get you buddy. It’s fine. If you play a shooter but you can’t, say, move and shoot, or move the camera and shoot and then tell me it’s really hard while on the easiest setting, I’m gonna have to doubt you hard. If you pull a Dean Takahashi on me... Well, yeah. Most people don’t expect games journalists to be a “gamers among gamers”, or MLG 1080 no scope gods. But then again, I guess that’s why the term “some players” is used at the start. So if even, say, a miniscule 0.1% of gamers do think like that, they wouldn’t be lying.

> Esports reporter Sabriel Mastin regularly covers Blizzard Entertainment’s first-person shooter Overwatch for Overbuff’s blog. She was surprised by EventHubs’ requirement, in part because she believes there’s a fundamental difference between analyzing a game as a journalist and demonstrating technical skills as a player. “For example, I cover Overwatch from general news to the highest levels of the game with the Overwatch League,” she told the Daily Dot. “I understand it at a very high level, but I’m in the middle of the competitive ladder. […] That doesn’t mean I don’t understand high-level plays and strategies of what the pro players are doing.”

🍀 She’s absolutely right. There’s a difference however in being an analyst and a game reviewer. Look at sports for example. We don’t expect sports journalists to be able to compete with whatever football team is up there right now but we most certainly expect them to be able to tell us what’s going on if we ever get confused. Same with cars. I wouldn’t trust Top Gear to cover a car if they can’t drive and base everything off whatever the specs of the car are. There’s a fundamental difference in watching and doing.

Also middle of the competitive ladder is probably pretty damn good. Or at least a really good indicator that she knows her mechanics really well.

> This is exactly what happened to GamesBeat’s Dean Takahashi. 🍀 Ah, shit. Here we go again.

> In the games industry, Takahashi regularly breaks stories and approaches controversial news with a level head. If you’re a games journalist, he’s a role model for your own career. But if you’re just a regular gamer who doesn’t track the industry’s most important writers, you probably know Takahashi for his abysmal Cuphead gameplay. In a viral video, Takahashi struggles to clear Cuphead’s easiest part by far: its tutorial. One scene shows him unable to clear a tall pillar for over a full minute, despite the fact the game walks the player through how to pass the obstacle. Without context, the video implies Takahashi is a clueless writer who barely knows how to use a controller.

🍀 I don’t know about “most important writers” or being a role model. But then again, I’m a “regular gamer who doesn’t track the industry’s most important writers”. I’m a regular gamer who looks at the end product being marketed to the audience: the articles.

Even with context, he was absolutely horrible at it. So much so that I think there’s going to forever be some doubt about his abilities to actually assess games for consumption. I remember reading that it allegedly wasn’t the first time he did it either. I think it was an RPG or something, but he didn’t realize that there was a menu button and that he could increase his stats or something, making the game easier. Not sure how true that is, but Cuphead most certainly didn’t help his reputation.

> But an explanatory post written by Takahashi paints a different picture. While previewing the game during Germany’s Gamescom trade fair, he “was messing around at first” and “wasn’t focused and serious until I had warmed up,” which means he easily missed clues telling the player how to complete the tutorial. This makes a lot of sense if you’ve ever been to a gaming convention as a member of the press. With so many games to preview, interviews to conduct, and time-sensitive stories to write, it’s impossible to give a game the same undivided attention as you would at home.

🍀 You don’t mess around for a whole minute at a tutorial segment, being a complete idiot who can’t Jump And Dash. It takes a child maybe 30 seconds. Sure, we can miss things in games, but it was pretty spelled out. The camera even gave you all the clues you needed the moment you got into the pit.

You can’t tell me you need to give Cuphead’s tutorial your complete undivided attention. It’s fine that he messed up in the stage itself, I mean, platformers aren’t really everybody’s thing, although the way he played it looked like he was playing platformers for the first time, but a tutorial like that does not require your complete, undivided attention. It requires a bit of it, but not so much that you enter The Zone trying to bloody Jump And Dash.

> Nearly two years later, the controversy echoes a point Mastin made about the EventHubs job listing: In a world with Gamergate, “skill” is used to gatekeep marginalized players and determine who is (or isn’t) a real gamer.

🍀 Except it’s not used to “ gatekeep marginalized players and determine who is or isn’t a “real gamer”. “Skill” is a mostly arbitary measure people have always had to determine if someone is competing in your bracket, or in the case of games journalists, determine if they know what the hell they’re actually talking about.

I’ve seen people criticize Monster Hunter for not being Devil May Cry. They really didn’t know what the game was about.

You can criticize a game for being clunky, the classic Resident Evil games were pretty darn clunky for example, you can say that their controls didn’t make any sense. You can criticize a game’s gameplay for not feeling rewarding, but to be able to tell, you’d have to be able to play the game, which means having some measure of skill to get through the game in the first place.

In a skill based activity, skill is to some degree linked to understanding. Games like Monster Hunter and Dark Souls work like that. The better understanding you have of your tools (iframes, armour, move set), the better your understanding of game mechanics, the thing you interact with to get through the game.

> “It can certainly feel that the conversation is coming from right-leaning people, especially after being around during [the Gamergate] era,” Mastin said. “The ‘discussion’ has the vestige of that time when we’d hear, ‘Game journalists need to be objective, taking out any emotion from the game.’ I don’t remember the discussion about being ‘good’ popping up before that time.”

🍀 And here it is, one of the myriad things I really, really dislike because it feels dishonest. Do you see it?

“right-leaning people”

I really dislike this because it’s often times done as a smear. What’s that? You don’t care about politics and found Anita Sarkeesian’s video questionable? You must be some skinhead Nazi son-of-a-bitch. What’s that? You think Dean Takahashi was iffy? You must be a right-wing trogdolyte.

I dislike this because it shuts down any conversation to be had and is a very underhanded dodge method. It also pushes people to extremes because they develop a sense of bitterness from being silenced.

But hey, who gives a shit. Criticism of game journalists apparently makes you “right-wing”, whatever the hell that even means.

Rant aside. I don’t know anyone saying that they need to “take any emotion from the game”, back then and now. I remember people saying that they shouldn’t be sleeping with the person who was reviewing their game, much like with every other field, to prevent as much bias as possible. Very different things.

I also remember people saying that you had to be “good”, but the definition of “good” was “decent at the game”.

> But a skilled gamer isn’t necessarily a skilled reporter. Journalism has its own requirements for basic competency: a strong voice, a powerful command of the written word, the people skills necessary to talk to sources, and the humility required to cooperate with an editor and revise a story. These are not necessarily things you can learn from playing Super Smash Bros. Ultimateor Overwatch. On some level, you have to sacrifice in-game time to focus on becoming a better reader, writer, and communicator. If that means you occasionally struggle with a difficult game like Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice or Enter the Gungeon, then so be it. That doesn’t make you any less of a games journalist.

🍀 The article is right in that being a skilled gamer doesn’t make you a skilled journalist. You do have to sacrifice some thing for another. Doesn’t explain Dean’s abysmal performance in the tutorial or when we see game journalists play FPS games and move their character, not the camera, to turn around and shoot something.

Look. You don’t have to be a god at a game to review it. It would be untrue to say that nobody ever said this, but it would also be untrue to say that that’s what people are asking for. It’s like if you were buying that overly hyped cheese tart. You really, really want the cheese tart reviewer to have taste buds. It’d be great if they can tell you if there’s some essence of cheese-flower in the tart or something, but that’s a bonus. You want them to be able to tell you how it generally tastes, the mouth feel, if it’s crumble, etc etc. If that’s the standard for most, if not everything, fields, then why should it be different for gaming?

> But in a world infested with Gamergaters, it’s hard to read a job posting like EventHubs’ in good faith. If you’re not a pro gamer, you’re an SJW charlatan.

🍀 Infested is a strange term to use for people who want ethics in game journalism and don’t want to be hit over the head with some forced SJW aesop or writing which takes the story or setting in a choke hold, like with Andromeda where apparently the Asari, a unisex species has what’s basically gendered pronouns because why the fuck not. (Seriously, it’s a small issue I know, but it would have been great to explore how a unisex species works, if they use different pronouns for the different stages in like, etc etc, and if they do, why? How the hell would they perceive gender anyway? Asari can breed with pretty much whoever they want, genitals be damned.)

Infested is a strange term to use for people who rolled their eyes to Far Cry 5 reviewers that said that the game wasn’t “political enough” (to summarize) because they wanted the game to bash the hell out of Trump and his supporters and gave the game a lower score.

(No, seriously. They expected a French company who wants to make money to alienate a portion of their player base to make some political statement that they most likely do not care about so that some folks who hate Trump can get a hard on for 5 seconds or something.)

I don’t think anyone who plays video games is really against “diversity” in video games. I say it in quotation marks because the definition of diversity is ridiculously loose. I mean, a while ago we got some guy criticizing The Witcher 3, a game based on a nearly mono-European-ethnicity country’s cultural history and mythology, a nation which doesn’t get much spotlight in anything aka Poland because it doesn’t have “people of colour”.

I don’t know about you lot, but I would honestly rather play a game that’s based off of Polish stories, Egyptian mythos than some shooter based in America, even if the character is somehow, super specifically, Malaysian Chinese and likes Nasi Lemak and Ramlee burgers more than he should.

And no. You’re not an SJW charlatan because you’re not a pro-gamer. It’s a false dichotomy to say that. If you’re an SJW charlatan, it’s because you’re an SJW charlatan. It’s almost as bloody stupid as saying that you’re a right-winger because you play games. Or you’re part of the Yang-Gang because you’re Asian because he’s Asian. (For the record, I’m Malaysian, again, but the Yang-Gang thing is pretty cool.)

Stop digging Gamergate back out from it’s grave. You’ve taken the piss on it’s corpse, spat at people who gave too much of a damn about games and repeatedly use it as a boogeyman to further your bullshit instead of, oh, I don’t know, using it as the lesson it should be:

Do your job and tell us if a game is decent, fun or bad, your political standpoint be damned.

Overall, I’m kind of disappointed yet at the same time I’m not. I really want game journalists to do their job and tell me how fun a game was. I mentioned the Diablo 3 PC Gamer Malaysia article a bunch of times, but recently I remembered the article they wrote for Evil Genius. It didn’t question the morality of the game, it didn’t go on about how there could be more inclusion or some shit like that.

It talked about the game and made me wish I could play it.

#don't mind me #off the cuff

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emperorren · 6 years

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Why do you think Reylo is still a cautionary tale/"lol fangirls will ship anything" relationship in a lot of critique, especially feminist-leaning critique? I suppose this is what makes me second-guess my view of the romance most of all, because many people that I otherwise respect as media critics and would say have very good takes (like Linds@y Ell|s, blocking for the search function) seem to think Rey was wrong to try to redeem Kylo and don't see any of the subtext.

It’s pretty common for third wave feminism to criticize harshly female characters who a) follow the classic Heroine’s Journey or gothic heroine tropes; b) display a “toxic” combination of compassion and attraction for male characters who are Not Nice Guys. This kind of feminist critique is all about dismantling the ingrained subservient sympathy for men that supposedly the patriarchy forces on our good little female brains, to liberate us from the burden of liking Horrible Male Characters, hoping this will mean we finally stop liking horrible men in real life too. If the female protagonist displays said sympathy in the first place, then she is necessarily a creature of the patriarchy and needs to be torn apart too. Needless to say this approach is based on denying compassion to both male and female characters who don’t conform to arbitrarily “progressive” rules, rather than actually encouraging a reading of the story from a female perspective.

It’s roughly the same fake-deep approach to fantasy fiction that produced gems like Beauty and the Beast is Stockholm Syndrome (unless the blogger/critic in question is a fan of BatB, in which case they will go to any ridiculous lengths to explain how in fact BatB is Okay and Female Empowerment while the EXACT SAME TROPE in another story they don’t personally like is Evil and Abusive). Gender politics and gender(ed) tropes can be discussed through a feminist lens, but not decontextualized from the genre they belong to, the history of that genre, and who it’s specifically catered to. Otherwise you end up with paradoxical (but popular) stances like attacking gothic romance for its “bad” tropes when the whole genre was born as essentially literature done by women for women.

Personally I would be suspicious of any Feminist Take™ that essentially converges with what typical fanboys have to say on that subject. I don’t follow L.E. nor have I seen what she has to say about Reylo other than a few tweets attacking Kylo fans for supposedly making him “a victim” and being /worse than Loki stans/—I’ve heard she makes SOME good points about the First Order and stuff, but honestly it’s not enough for me to go and sit through the whole thing while my blood turns into bile. In the year of our lord 2018 I don’t need a feminist critique that refuses to acknowledge a blatant depiction of abuse because the victim is male and “evil”. Nor one that tries to make me feel bad for basically having a romantic fantasy that doesn’t translate well into reality. (what kind of fantasy does?)

And I ESPECIALLY don’t care for allegedly *feminist* jabs directed at a demographic that is already the butt of jokes by male critics & the general fandom—female fans of male villains, because apparently finding a villain hot while also “woobifying him” ( = appreciating his less typically-masculine traits, such as victimhood, emotionality, vulnerability) is worse than typical fanboy “wow so evil so BADASS” villain stanning.

Last but not least, I don’t care for sw discourse that ridicules fans for responding to the story EXACTLY like the story wanted them to. If Star Wars didn’t want me to ship Reylo and like Kylo Ren, they would have written a different story. If people have issues with that, they can complain directly to Lucasfilm.

#thanks for coming to my ted talk #i may be harsh but I'm 2000% done with these hot takes #anon #asks #fanwank #anti reylo bs #anti kylo bs #kylo discourse #villain discourse

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whostheblondegirlwriting · 6 years

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Hi, I love your stories and writing. I have a question that is in NO WAY a criticism about you, just a question about people's writings in general. This may also be a multi part question. So I've noticed in a lot of fandoms, people complain when female characters are constantly being sexually assaulted for a story. I know it happens often in real life, but it is annoying to see almost all the time. Like that Joss Whedon comment about a female superhero who he wanted toknow what horrible thing...

Wow! What an interesting, and potentially loaded, question. Lol I can see some people not liking my answer. If I chap some asses, just remember: it’s just one answer to an ask, and, if you have other thoughts, asks are always open. …Also, grab some cookies and a drink, because this may take a few minutes.

Is it safe to say, a majority (or at least, a good chunk) of, I’ll say, this fandom’s writers are women? My perception anyway, even if tumblr-ers don’t say in their headers or posts who they are. With that in mind, some of the bread and butter tropes for female writers and readers seem to be romantic plots, quite often with some version of a damsel of some situation or “fix me” trope in there somewhere. Why? Because who wouldn’t want some handsome, Chris Evans-looking beefcake to sweep them off their feet and make everything alright? Save me from this hell, let me love again, etcetera and so on. Same goes for, what I’ll call, the unnecessarily strong female character. Who doesn’t want to see some indestructible goddess stand up for herself or get her revenge? …But why are those our only options?

Part of the reason is how deeply ingrained these plots are in what we see in available fic and societally is typical and, most importantly, successful. Here’s a formula that works and isn’t it fun to see someone get revenge, take no shit, or whatever. Another reason, I think, is the escapism of it. Looking again at tumblr, there seems to be an awful lot of users who are “younger” and are experiencing, or have, some of these situations who may find a little inspiration or hope. “If the heroine can overcome this, so can I”. “The heroine did this, so will I”. Older ones may find it cathartic to put themselves into the heroine and say, “I did this”, “I survived this”, or as their own wish fulfillment.

Either way, don’t we all like to see someone triumph? If it’s a reader insert fic, don’t we all want to win and have our happy ending? Of course, we do! But there does seem to be a misconception that to be successful or strong that you must suffer for it. Frankly, it’s just not true and, quite possibly, it can be damaging to keep perpetuating this myth.

Everyone can look around and see someone, whether they know them personally or not, who is a “strong female character”. A coworker, a celebrity, a friend who seems to have their shit together and a good attitude. If you ever hear them talk, they don’t have a tragic backstory. They just seem to make their own luck, keep moving forward, and their efforts succeed. I’d be shocked that anyone could honestly say they don’t know of someone like this.

But that’s not interesting. Sure, they’re nice people, and lucky them if they’ve had a “good” life, but where’s the fun in that? Where’s the drama? Shouldn’t they have to earn it? What are they hiding? …because isn’t it the easy way to write a character to follow a proven, winning formula? Everyone else has an angsty backstory, so why doesn’t she? Why are we so suspicious that you can’t have one thing without the other? Frankly, because it’s harder.

How do I make you root for someone who, for all appearances, is making their way through life on their own without being victim to someone else or circumstances? Answer: make them interesting. I think writers, and readers, forget that everyday heroines exist naturally, because of the overselling of the damaged character (male or female) only being able to exist or succeed because of the bad they’re forced to face or by leaning on someone else. I, personally, think more natural heroines exist in the world than writers would ever admit. Why? Because it’s not sexy; doesn’t sell. “Normal” is boring. Readers don’t want “reality”, no matter what AU or fantasy world you put them in. …I call bullshit on that.

If we, as writers, don’t put in the effort to create characters who are strong from their convictions, the way they were raised, the people they associate with, and the cognizant decisions they make, how will readers know they can and do exist? How can readers be interested, and maybe inspired, by them, if we don’t give them to them?

It takes effort to create a genuinely strong female character; to decide who a character is and why. It takes effort to come up with an interesting plot that has action, drama, romance, or suspense and can stand on its own without falling back on the old formulas/tropes. Also, it can be discouraging to create a strong heroine, who hasn’t been dropped into one of these cliched victim stories, and then see the story not gain a large following, get notes, or kudos. But god damn if I don’t see another victim to heroine story exploding in popularity, so I’m gonna write one too, right?

I know I sound bitter or high and mighty, like I hate or haven’t read some of these fics myself. I have. I’ll admit it. But I can honestly say that I’m typically disappointed, because the idea was there but the effort wasn’t. Maybe there was a great angle in the story, but the character never came along. “I’m hard, because this is how life did me wrong. Now, I’m made of steel and nothing and no one can hurt me ever again.” Okay…but how? Why? Is that even necessary?

Maybe it’s a lack of confidence in their heroine or in the writer themselves that has so many stories falling into these same overdone and unproductive devices. Maybe the writer doesn’t have the time or want to put in the effort. You see so many overdone plots or allegedly strong heroines (but who are more caricature than actual, developed characters) go on to be huge successes (on AO3, on TV, or at the box office) that why wouldn’t any writer who wants to have that for themselves follow their just add water recipe?

Writers, no matter how big or small their following, have an opportunity to change the perception that a heroine, or hero, can be strong only because they have suffered. That’s a “writer challenge”. Think outside the box and recognize or discover healthy, inspirational, and reasonable approaches to creating and developing a character. Take time to build their world and actually plot their plot, and try new takes on how a heroine can navigate them. Not all good stories have to involve her surviving a physical or emotional trauma or tragedy to find herself/her strengths or save the day. Shit happens and heroes rise and fall by it, yeah. But does it have to be that much over and over and over again?

This is writing. Use your imagination! Be original! Be creative! Rebel against overused plots and tropes and underdeveloped characters!

Tl;dr Honestly, there just aren’t enough people putting in the effort to break the cycle.

Thank you for coming to my TED talk.

#rebellions are built on hope #thank you for coming to my ted talk #asks & messages are always open #you’ve got questions. i’ve got answers #fanfic tropes #fanfic problems #writer problems #whostheblondegirlwriting #eonao3

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 6 years

Text

An eerie night inside Blue Mountains sect the Twelve Tribes

Updated June 14, 2018

THEIR beliefs have attracted attention from authorities globally. On this cold night, we went inside the home of the controversial sect.

James Weir news.com.au June 8, 2018

A TAMBORINE rattles and feet stomping on timber floorboards echoes down the dark garden path of this strange, old house.

Don’t bring anything, just yourself, were the instructions given by an intense man who stared deeply and refused to blink.

It’s a cold Friday night in the small town of Katoomba in the Blue Mountains. Up the road, about 500m, backpackers and weekenders scurry into bars and restaurants to escape the icy air. But a stroll down Baptist St along the train line, there’s no one else. That’s when the tambourine rattles.

An electric doorbell is stuck to the side of the old home’s thick front door. The hi-tech convenience goes against the simple notions of the group that resides here. It’s just one of many contradictions.

Yellow light floods the darkness as a young man pulls the door open and loud renaissance music pours out with it. The stomping amplifies.

In the living room, a circle of young people spins around fast. It’s a blur of young men with leather headbands, little kids with long hair and young women covered up in floor-length skirts and baggy white blouses with braids down their backs.

They hold hands and thump their feet on the worn-out floorboards. Older members, also clothed in plain, conservative outfits, sit on the edges of the room and watch.

This is Friday night Shabbat at Balmoral House, one of the Sydney bases of controversial international religious group the Twelve Tribes. Its members are fiercely loyal to the conservative and reclusive practices. But those who have left the group tell a different story.

The group has faced global criticism for its views on race, homosexuality and child discipline teachings, which enforce hitting. In 2013, a police raid removed 40 children from a Twelve Tribes property in Germany after undercover footage captured repeated physical punishment of a number of children. This week, an investigation was launched in New York after an upstate property run by the tribe was allegedly found to be enforcing child labour.

As the circle spins inside the old house, a girl approaches with a tall glass of thick, purple liquid. Everyone stares until it’s sipped.

‘ALL MY BRAINWASHING CAME DOWN’

Rosemary Ilich remembers the day she decided to leave the Twelve Tribes after 13 years inside with her husband and three children.

“It’s like all my brainwashing came down. To realise what a crazy thing I’d been part of — a horrible thing — it’s like a bucket of cold ice thrown at your face,” she tells news.com.au about the day she quit in 2010, a short time after her husband and son left.

Matthew Klein had a similar feeling after he was kicked out in 2001. He managed to get his kids out, but his wife insisted on staying.

“I still remember lying in bed thinking, f**k, I was in a cult. It hit me like a tonne of bricks,” he tells news.com.au.

The group that promised unconditional love, acceptance and forgiveness became a horror that, for years, they couldn’t escape.

“It’s like your whole map of reality gets changed. You become your own enemy,” Mrs Ilich says. “So when you have healthy doubts, you think, no, that’s the devil talking to me. That’s what the teachings are there for. It’s for judging yourself, removing your sin and you become obsessed with that.”

On the surface, the fundamentalist organisation, which began 46 years ago in Chattanooga, Tennessee, offers members community and enlightenment and provides them with a simple, sustainable way of life. Its enforced beliefs are a mishmash of Judaism, Christianity and teachings written by founder Eugene Spriggs — a former carnival showman known to followers as “Yoneq”.

Its estimated 3000 members are placed in tribes across the US, Australia, Spain, Germany, France, Argentina, Canada and the Czech Republic. Tribes live together in self-sustaining communities, with many operating cafes — all named The Yellow Deli Cafe — in small nearby towns.

According to Mrs Ilich those who join the group are made to work tirelessly in the cafes or labour on the farms and in the households without payment.

“Bit by bit, you lose all your critical thinking,” Mrs Ilich says. “I did have red flags coming up but you always think it’s Satan. Because it’s all you hear about is Satan, all day. And you’re also supposed to confess things. You’re cut off from information — you can’t read the papers, I wasn’t allowed to drive, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere. All there is is heavy repetition. Nothing else.”

Raphael Aron, director and counsellor of Cult Consulting Australia, has worked with former Twelve Tribes members after they’ve exited the group. He says communities like it can target a person’s desire to belong.

“There is no relationship between stability or intelligence and the human vulnerability to recruitment,” he says. “Some of the most prominent members … are highly educated individuals often with multiple college degrees.”

When members join the Twelve Tribes, they’re asked to sell any property or possessions and give all their earnings to the tribe. Inside, no one has savings and electronic items like phones, computers and televisions are not allowed.

“They tell you you can leave, but you can’t,” former member Greg Kelly tells news.com.au.

INSIDE THE BIG, OLD HOUSE

Inside the tribe’s dimly lit Yellow Deli Cafe in Katoomba this Friday afternoon, it’s all dark nooks and heavy varnished timbers. The strong smell of stewed meats and spices cloud the space. Tribe teachings and symbolic murals are painted on the wall. A small phrase is painted in cursive writing: “Eternity is a long, long time.”

A tall middle-aged man with greying hair walks up the stairs to the tiny second level. He leans over the railing next to the table, stares intently and introduces himself. All the other customers in the cafe are in groups. But at this small table sits a lone customer.

The man doesn’t blink. He stares deeply and talks slowly. He’s intense but welcoming. And almost insistent that the invitation to the tribe’s house be accepted. The mention of friends gets him excited. “Bring them!” he encourages, before off-loading a loaf of olive bread and a green super bar, specially made by the tribe.

A few days later, Mrs Ilich will explain the tribe’s obsession with bringing in new members.

“If people are not getting added to the community then it’s your fault. The problem is always with you — it’s never the leaders, because they represent God,” she says.

After the sun sets in the mountains and the temperature plunges, that’s when the tambourines and the purple juice and exotic smells ambush the senses.

“I’m so glad you came,” the man from the deli beams, pulling up chairs on the perimeter of the spinning circle.

Staring at the young people dancing, he explains a lot of them have been in the tribe since they were kids — some of them born into it. It’s hard to tell how old anyone is. The girl with the purple juice looks about 16. But the man says she’s in her 20s or 30s.

It’s difficult to identify or remember people. And everyone has a Hebrew name.

“They change Hebrew names all the time,” Mrs Ilich later explains. “I think it helps with confusing everyone. When you try find someone in there there’s five (people named) Emunah, Anav, Daveed, Israil. It’s easy to mask people.”

One of the young men here gave up his farm in Gunnedah to join the tribe. He met his wife here and, after marrying, they had a child. Their little blonde girl is not shy like the others and has cheekiness in her eyes.

You can only marry within the tribe, the man explains. If an attraction forms, the man and woman are required to go to the leaders (there’s three, but one main leader, it’s later said) for approval. Meetings are organised between the pair to talk. They’re not allowed to touch. These meetings can go for months until they decide they want to marry. It’s only after the wedding a couple can kiss.

“They don’t have birth control and they try to get the ladies to have as many (children) as they can,” Mrs Ilich later explains. When she decided to leave in 2010, her oldest daughter had just become engaged to a boy who grew up in the tribe and insisted on staying at the group’s Picton farm. Mrs Ilich hasn’t been allowed to meet her three grandchildren or see her daughter, now 27, since 2013.

Silence falls at the end of each song and the dancing bodies turn lifeless until a strum of the guitar tells them it’s OK to move again. About an hour passes before the circle disbands and everyone finds a place in the living room to sit reverently. One by one, five people stand up to deliver an improvised sermon about what they’re thankful for.

Suddenly the group launches into vigorous song.

“There’s gonna be thousands of these everywhere!” the intense man yells over the music.

LOVE-BOMBED, BRAINWASHED

You can make the “commitment”, he urges later while standing in the front garden of the old house. It’s cold, dark and quiet.

I “put out the message” and you “received it”, you were open, he says. Friends are always going to abandon you, he explains. But not the tribe.

He offers a bed at Balmoral House. Come for a weekend, he suggests. “You can work in the cafe,” he says.

Three weekend stays is all it took before Mrs Ilich and her family moved into the tribe’s farm.

“We unknowingly put ourselves in the process of recruitment,” she recalls. “It’s called love-bombing — they shower you with love and affection and make you feel like family.”

She added: “We didn’t know what hit us. We fell in love with them. They kind of rewrite your past for you and you start thinking about your past in a dark light. They started making me look at my life like my family is trying to control me. They try to separate you from each other.”

While Cult Consulting Australia’s Raphael Aron does not classify specific groups as cults, he says clients are “very quick to point out the cult-like characteristics” of the Twelve Tribes, which include shunning family members who leave the group.

At a long communal dinner table, the intense man from the deli happily tells his story while picking at a plate of stewed beef, vegetables and noodles. He asks about family relationships, living situations and car possession.

Specific questions about how the tribe works draw vague answers from him. When external criticism is brought up, he changes topic.

The circle is spinning and the stomping resumes while a girl blows softly into a recorder. A young woman brings over a mug of warm liquid. She stares blankly when thanked.

“Look around!” the man says. “Does this look like a cult?”

https://www.news.com.au/lifestyle/real-life/true-stories/an-eerie-night-inside-blue-mountains-sect-the-twelve-tribes/news-story/2071df35fee257d4d3a5f4ba2191d73a

Children of the Tribes

In this country we celebrate the First Amendment, which prevents the government from interfering with religious beliefs and practices. But what if those beliefs and practices make children suffer?

By Julia Scheeres

“In 1972, a former high school teacher and guidance counselor named Gene Spriggs and his fourth wife, Marsha, started a gathering of believers in their home. ... Later the tenor of the sect changed. Spriggs began to preach that blacks were destined to be slaves, homosexuals “deserved the death penalty,” and women — who weren’t allowed to use birth control — had to atone for Eve’s original sin by giving birth without painkillers. He drafted rules regulating everything from fingernail length to how married couples should engage in intercourse.”

US Department of Labor in Albany Finds Multiple Child Labor Violations at Common Sense Farm as a Result of June 2018 Twelve Tribes Investigation

Video: This man lost his wife to the Twelve Tribes cult

UC/FFWPU Recruitment – The Boonville Chicken Palace

Boonville – “It was a very complex set of manipulations”

Indemnity is a Moon Trap

The Four Fallen Natures of the Divine Principle are used as a means of controlling members.

Fear is not a good reason to stay in the UC

Scared of leaving?

Moon “split the person apart”

#Twelve Tribes #manipulation #Moonies #cult recruitment

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thatonelucky · 6 years

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betty in a secret realtionship with serpent prince Jughead, they get caught one day by the gang / serpents while they are down at sweet water river 'canoodling' 😂❤❤❤ please & thank you for sharing your writing 😊

Here you go Nonnie! Hope you enjoy :))

The Serenity of Seclusion

It hadbeen no secret that Betty and Jughead were the couple that everyone thoughtwould break up within a day or two. The fact they had been going strong for afew months baffled their peers. All anyone could see was a loner outsider fromthe wrong side of the tracks and a hot blonde cheerleader who’s the epitome ofperfection. Though, that was from the outside.

Truthbe told, the pair had a lot more in common on a deep level. What you see is notalways what you get. Jughead had issues growing up, Betty had issues growing upand though they may not be the exact same situation, it affected them bothequally. Through Jughead’s personal vendetta against love and Betty’sself-hatred, the roots are even.

Sometimesbeing in a relationship with the outsiders being so involved, it’s hard tocope. Everyone thinks that they know you and they treat you like they knowwhat’s best. They think they’re so sure of what goes on in your head that theytake it upon themselves to let the whole world know how horrible you are foreach other. All in all, high school sucks.

Thatwasn’t the hardest challenge to face for the pair. There have been much worseobstacles. The biggest one so far being Jughead’s new ‘Serpent Prince’ title.It wasn’t a huge problem, Betty could deal with it. The only thing she caresabout is the amount of time he spends at the Whyte Worm. They barely have timefor each other anymore.

Thatbeing said, the pair came up with a solution to meet in private at SweetwaterRiver whenever they can. Usually, that means every Wednesday and Sunday. Thisplan worked quite well, it was secluded. They weren’t being constantly examinedby prying eyes like they were some kind of caged circus act. The Freak and thePsycho. What a perfect duo.

At thisvery moment, the pair were cuddling close on a midsummer’s afternoon. Jugheadhad arrived late, again. Allegedly the gang had kept him behind for a half hourtoo long, bugging him about where he was going. Betty didn’t mind, she liked tosit by the river and think by herself. The river had quickly become one of herfavourite spots.

“I’venever felt this calm before.” Jughead spoke slowly into the nape of Betty’sneck. Though she sighed happily in response, a part of her felt sorrow. Shealways thought about how he deserved a better life. He deserved better thanher. In all honesty, Jughead deserved the world but he lets people give himonly buckets of dirt.

“Youmake me calm.” Betty smiled out to the river. At the moment, her back wasresting on the front of his chest as they both lazily sprawled out in thegrass. The river’s currents were slow and steady, the water glistening abeautiful shade of blue under the light of the sun. There were no winds, nobirds and best of all, no one else. The peaceful serenity of seclusion.

Jugheadtightened his grip on Betty, rocking her slightly. Betty’s eyes closed in asafe reassurance, Jughead’s arms acting a safety barrier. She always felt mostat peace when she was wrapped up in his arms; there was nothing that made herfeel more at peace with the world.

Inthese moments the pair usually recapped their days but sometimes they would layin a comfortable silence. This was momentarily one of those times, but Bettyneeded to tell Jughead what happened today. She couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“Cheryl’sdating Toni.” Betty blurted out. He probably knew already but it was worthtalking about. Betty knew nothing about Toni’s sexuality but she does know thatCheryl is pansexual. She wished she had spotted the pairing sooner. Jugheaddidn’t tense up or act shocked in any way so he must’ve known.

“Yeah,Toni told me this morning. I’m happy for her, she’s never had the courage todate a girl before but she’s always wanted to.” Jughead spoke out, the prideheavy and evident in his words. “She struggled for so long, y’know. Toni, shefound it so difficult finding herself. She amazes me.” Jughead was fond ofToni. She’d quickly climbed her way up in Jughead’s list of people he canstand. Betty was obviously at the top, but Toni was a close 3rd.

“Is shegay?” Betty asked, not in a harsh way. She was generally interested. Jugheadhad said something last week about Toni’s uncle kicking her out of her trailerso she had to crash with him. Betty was fine with it; she knew Jughead wouldn’tdo anything to put their relationship in jeopardy. Jughead was quick torespond.

“Nah,she’s bi. Her uncle found out last week and kicked her out. That’s why she’sstaying with me. I only found out about Cheryl when I found a diamond earringunder my couch.” He chuckled lightly. Betty felt the vibrations through herback, making her giggle slightly at the way Jughead must’ve looked. “I almosthad an aneurism. I thought my trailer was a diamond mine.” Jughead joked,snuggling further in to Betty. Both of them laughing out loud at the image. “No,Betts I’m serious. I called up the contractors and everything!”

“Oh no,I’m sure they were devastated.” Betty quipped back, craning her neck to face thebeanie clad boy. Their stare was an intense lock of passion and humour whichdescribed their relationship perfectly. Jughead leaned in first, catching Betty’ssoft lips with his own. The kiss lasted no longer than a few seconds but led toa harder lock of passion.

Thingswere starting to get heated, hands roaming over bodies. Jughead had his handsunder Betty’s shirt, running his hand over the exposed skin, reacting towardsher bralette. He would’ve gone further if not for a gasp coming from thebushes. The two sprang apart immediately. Jughead ran into action, charging atthe bushes only to have 6 bodies jump out at him at the same time.

“Whatthe hell, Sweet Pea!” Jughead shouted in exasperation, incredibly frustratedthat he had been interrupted so rudely. The other 5 men were also Serpents.Specifically, the 6 he was with before he left for the river. Did they followhim here? He was feeling violated but at the same time he found the situation mildlyfunny.

“Sothis is where you’ve been sneaking off to?” Sweet Pea pranced over to Betty,swinging an arm casually around her shoulders. At this point, her face was beetred and her hair was still a ruffled mess. During the commotion she had managedto smooth down her clothing, though they doubt it would’ve made the situationlook any less innocent.

“Yeah, Princey.Sneaking off for a little rendezvous ey?” Joaquin spoke from the group behind Jughead.He walked over and patted his back, sending him a teasing smirk. “Atta boy.” Hecongratulated, sending the Serpents and even Betty into fits of laughter.

“Hey,hey calm it down. I’m a grown boy.” Jughead winked over to Betty, confidencesuddenly coursing through his veins. He didn’t even know if Betty could turnany redder but again, she did the impossible. Her head hung low inembarrassment. She knew he was only joking but she was very prude.

“Okay,well we’ve got all we came for. See you later, Princey.” Sweet Pea walked overfrom Betty and patted Jughead’s shoulder. “Remember, use a condom. We don’tneed any serpent ba-“He was abruptly cut off with Jughead’s hand clasping overhis mouth. Jughead could literally feel him grinning.

“Gotit, see you guys later.” Jughead gritted, starting to feel even more awkwardthan before. The serpents left swiftly, going back from where they came.Jughead walked over and wrapped Betty up in his arms. She hid her face in thelining of Jughead’s serpent jacket, wanting to just melt away. He placed asmall kiss on her head and smiled into her hair.

“I loveyou, Betts.” He spoke, feeling a sense of urgency to let her know that. Bettylifted her head to meet the gaze of her boyfriend’s. She didn’t think she couldever be happier than she already was but yet again, her theory has been provenwrong. Some of the happiest moments in her life would be hearing Jughead saythose 4 words. Nothing could ever mean more.

Remember I do take prompts and any feedback you’d like to give me! Just send me an ask :)

#bughead #jetty #betty and jughead #bughead fanfiction #bughead fanfic #riverdale #riverdale fanfic #riverdale fanfiction #betty cooper #jughead jones #thatonelucky

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