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nettlestonenell · 4 years

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Armie Hammer wants a sequel to The Man From U.N.C.L.E.—shouldn’t you?

This post is a long time in coming, Gentle Readers and @jammeke, but now, though it might be here, before your very eyes, to think it will be well-laid out would be a mistake. It’s set to be just about as messy as Ilya’s misplaced loyalties and murky motivations.

How dare!

I probably first watched this film well over a year ago (courtesy @jammeke posting things about it). I used Sling OnDemand (I think on TNT). In the ensuing viewings I also watched it in that way, but as I was sitting down for a fourth(?) viewing, it kept coming to me that I was tired of watching it with commercials I couldn’t skip, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it had been edited for time and I was missing out on scenes. [pointless aside: I was also watching the film in chunks, and never as a whole]

Where is she now? What’s the time stamp? How far along did she get? Are you shagging the hotel hostess yet?

So, I, uh, set out to buy it on DVD—without any luck! In the sense that copies I could find cost more (w/ shipping) than buying it to stream. So, I bought it to stream on Amazon. Do I regret my choice, Gentle Readers? No, no I don’t. I do regret burden of knowledge in learning that TNT was already playing the entirety of the film. That was a hard pill to swallow.

Nope, I’ve looked. That’s absolutely everything. Nothing additional lurking around here...

So here it is, as it is, @jammeke, “My Notes on The Man from U.N.C.L.E.”

Look, I don’t know what this film is. I probably can’t fully articulate its appeal. Or maybe I can--certainly after transcribing four page I’ve tried. Number One thing to know about me and fiction/films is that a top draw for me is seeing something out of the ordinary, such as beautiful locations, a historical era, delicious costumes. There are times, frankly, this can trump weak story and undefined character for me. (The best films, of course, combine all three) Certainly, The Man... delivers in the delight of the eyes. Additionally, I must confess that growing up as a person older than @reblogginhood but younger than Miss Fisher, so much of what was on TV was essentially reruns of this film’s iconic Look(tm). So, when I see women dressed like Gaby I am just another three-to-seven-year-old overcome with the drop dead glamour of it all.

Darling, tell me how you really feel...

Some questions I have:

· IS Armie Hammer a hulk of a man? Everyone in this film seems to think so, yet he always tracks to me as trim (rather than hulking)

· Why translate via captions some Russian speaking, but not all?

· IS Napoleon’s backstory directly cribbed from USA’s White Collar?

· DOES Gaby have a German accent?

· Does Ilya get preternaturally attached to all the people he’s ordered to look after? Also, what is his bonding rate with kittens?

Sorry, wrong iteration.

· If Lady Villain knows the lens is wrong—if her technical understanding is that in-depth--does she really need Gaby’s dad to make the bomb?

· How old was Gaby during the war?

· What happens when Ilya gets a NEW puppy assigned to him? (please let this be addressed in film #2)

Hooray for:

· That bathroom fight! *all the Burn Notice feels!

· Gaby is her own lady, and chooses sides as necessary—not always unilateral in her support for either male character. Case in point: she sides with Ilya over the clothes, and Napoleon over the incident of the wallet.

· That delicious (speaking as Rusty, here) Ocean’s 11-stylized action. It’s pretty, so I’m not bored with it. Sometimes a sandwiched montage gets shown, so I’m REALLY not bored. I’ve got 18 tiny moving boxes of things to look at!

· Pinkie rings. There, you’ve told me everything I need to know about that character.

· Solo in a beret. English has not yet found a word for the feeling it evoked in this viewer. Somewhere between ‘precious’ and ‘oh, no’.

See, there? Now you’ve felt it too.

· Goggles! All the accessories! Dune Buggies! (I mean, that’s what I’m calling Napoleon’s chase-scene ride)

Things I adore:

· It seems (after some research) that more than a few folks view Gaby as a third wheel, and though she’s not exactly a Princess Leia commandeering her own rescue and exuding competence and a deserved take-charge-attitude at every corner, she IS a foci for both male characters (though romantically it would seem only for one), just as Ilya is a foci for both her and Napoleon [no one seems to worry about Napoleon, though they should--film #2, anyone?]

· Mechanic Gaby not needing a beauty makeover, or being dragged into one. She gets some nice clothes, but it’s never suggested that she’s not attractive or acceptable before putting them on, and I respect, nay, embrace it.

Oh, my heart. She’s still not as tall as them!

· Ilya, drab pigeon Ilya, knowing fashion

· Oh man, don’t even get me started on the power of the statement, “it doesn’t have to match”

· You knew it was coming on this sublist: the wrestle-fight. I mean, c’mon. Poor little Gaby, locked behind the Iron Curtain, living a life of always being watched. She’s in the swankest hotel (I mean, Napoleon chose it, so we can be sure it’s swank with an E). She’s trying to celebrate her freedom, her liberation. She’s playing verboten music, she’s drinking to excess. Girl wants—and deserves—a party. And Ilya is…not built for that (that he knows of). For some fun, just imagine if she had been given Napoleon to room with instead.

o I will say that this scene, and some of their other interactions have what I would call early (non-sibling) Luke and Leia energy. Ilya seems to have moments of being struck by Gaby in a way Luke is struck by Leia in the early part of the trilogy. When Leia takes charge, and Luke accepts it. When Leia does something incredible, and Luke is left open-mouthed. *no, I don’t see OT Star Wars in everything. Shut up.

· “He fixed the glitch.”

· Again, shout-out to the non-action action.

· “I left my jacket in there.”

· The whole race to rescue Gaby I am in love with beyond words. [I have noted it as “Crazy Jeep Drive with Warhead!”] Probably b/c it comes across as totally egalitarian. Both men want her rescued. They’re no longer in competition. It’s just as important to Napoleon as it is to Ilya to catch up to her. Also, it is bonkers, like some sort of X-games version of a commercial for the vehicles they’re driving. And screaming Willie Scott does not make an appearance.

Someone says “winkle” out.

· Look! Another note about the screen divisions and how I love it, shout-outs to the original Steve McQueen The Thomas Crown Affair (a contemporary of when this movie is meant to be set), and TV’s 24.

Things that get a great, big NOPE:

· Jerrod Harris: you’ve been in so much streamable content in the last decade I can’t hate you, but frankly, you’re terrible here—unless you’re supposed to be giving a mannered, not-campy-enough-to-be-enjoyable performance here. Your American English puts me in the mind of Alex Hawaii 5-0′Loughlin where it feels you’re concentrating so hard on your accent that you fail to convince anyone that you’re a harried, over-worked and exasperated spy handler. Your performance is at odds with every bit of dialogue you’re given to say.

· That awful, mishandled title that doesn’t even connect to the film until the final moments (a sequel set-up, for sure)

· Look, you don’t introduce Hugh Grant casually mid-way through your film in a throwaway appearance. I mean, he’s HUGH GRANT we all know something’s up now.

· This is not exactly a great big NOPE, b/c I love a flat cap, Tommy Shelby—but I feel like a less tall man with a far rounder face in a flat cap would track more as Russian to me that AH does. To me, he just looks like he’s about to go golfing.

Over par? Unacceptable!

· Is Victoria a British-accented Italian? A British woman who married—what? Gaby’s uncle isn’t Italian!? An Italian who went to school in Britain? My head hurts. Also, is her hair meant to be unconvincingly bleached?

Other commentary:

· Napoleon’s adult ne’er-do-well backstory is so far from being emotionally equivalent to Ilya’s childhood trauma [and his enslavement to the USSR] it seems bestial when he calls it out on multiple occasions. Badly done, Solo.

· Gaby is the film’s key (sorry, Buffy fans). Everyone is connected to her. Yes, she could have been given a bit more on the character front, but I don’t see her as as much of a flaw in the film as some others/reviewers seem to.

· Look, essentially (and not very nuanced-ly), Ilya is a stalker. I think the film goes a certain distance in establishing that his early behavior toward Gaby is not normal, but concurrently it does not truly call him out on it. He’s essentially viewed as an odd-duck, sure, but not a true threat to her (should she not reciprocate or tolerate his intensity toward her). I think I might be able to cite his behavior when Gaby comes on to him (that he doesn’t jump at a chance with her) that maybe he’s given a little more nuance than a straight-on stalker, and it helps that he and Napoleon never get into a pissing match over Gaby’s person, only over her new clothes. But overall the film has to walk a fine line (and the jury is still out on how successful it is, I’d say) between playing Ilya’s laser-like attention to Gaby for its humor, and calling it out for the unsettling, threatening behavior it is.

· Honestly, it wasn’t until I engaged the Closed Captioning that I understood Napoleon was calling Ilya the ‘Red Peril’. So, that was nearly three viewings in.

· I give the screen credits A+, on both ends. Not to mention the end credits are actually INTERESTING with lots to see and learn! (Certainly we learn more about HG in them than we do at any time during the film)

Things I would have liked:

· More of fish-out-of-the-Iron-Curtain Gaby moments

· A better dichotomy shown of East vs. West Berlin/Germany. There’s nothing easy either visually or otherwise to distinguish the two.

· HC being given a more specific American accent (from an actual locality). This, for an American viewer, works better than the flat, unlocated American accent many a British actor will bust out. *Mind you, HC does a generally good job, but he fails utterly on both “Immediate” which he pronounces at least twice as “immeedeejt” [rather than imm-E-deeot] and “Nazi” as “NAHT-zee” [rather than “NOT-zee”]. And let’s not get started on that late in the film use of ‘earnt’, a word that—well, it’s just not in the American English twentieth century lexicon.

· C’mon. You gotta tease the Hugh Grant more.

· Solo is a blank before the war. I’ve read thoughts on the film calling out Gaby as the blank character, but they’re wrong. Solo is the blank. He’s the ‘made’ man, his identity seemingly assembled during the war and after. For example, he doesn’t go into the war a thief, nor (it would seem) a particularly educated or urbane individual. Now THAT’s a juicy backstory I’d love to learn about, perhaps in film #2--or #3? What creates a Napoleon Solo? What would he be doing if he weren’t on the government’s leash/incarcerated? Is anyone left caring about him back wherever he calls home? I mean, who doesn’t love a gender-flipped 60s-era Holly Golightly backstory? [And yes, I would love there to be an ex-wife or even a current wife mixed up in his origins as well—Guy Ritchie, call me!]

Notes I have that I’m not sure if they still make sense to me:

· Only mom calls me Napoleon (do he say it ‘mum’?) Is he a secret Canadian?

· Solo’s torture, 1st view recall Napoleon’s childhood? *I think this means that after watching the first time I somehow erroneously believed that during the torture Napoleon’s childhood was a topic gone over. This was wrong. HOWEVER, this would have made far more story-sense than the backstory we’re given on an easily disposeable villain.

· “Even the average Russian agent. You’re special.” ?

· Uncle is Baddie (*so glad I made this note to myself)

· Ilya’s dad IS an embarrassment. I’m not sure what genius commentary I had in my mind, here. Perhaps that Ilya himself is embarrassed of him? Not just Ilya’s handler’s? [Also, aside: Napoleon totally slut-shames Ilya’s mom, which is the doublest of double standards from ‘I got myself the biggest and most ornate suite b/c I-wanted-plenty-of-space-for-my-random-seductions’ and I really wish Ilya had thrown that back in his face] *yes, of course I know that Ilya and Napoleon would not likely equate a wife/mother’s sexual exploits with that of Solo’s, but let’s be honest, this film tweaks the nose of (I won’t say reverses, it doesn’t go that far) plenty of tropes and gender expectations, and this certainly seems like a missed opportunity to call Solo on the carpet (which I hope film #2 does far more)

Things I wrote down so long ago I don’t recall what they mean:

· CC-save

In conclusion:

What does film #2 look like? What title does it get? Will the Peter/Neil White Collar dynamic continue to grow? *note that I have no confidence a second film will ever come to pass...

In the end, all I know is, “It didn't help when American Tom Cruise, who was slated to play U.S. spy Napoleon Solo, dropped out, prompting the casting of Cavill (who had previously read for the Russian role).“ I would not have watched that film.

#tmfu #tmfu 2015 #ilya kuryakin #napoleon solo #gaby teller #henry cavill #armie hammer #alicia vikander #the man from uncle 2015 #the man from u.n.c.l.e.#the man from uncle #i don't know what this film's tags are meant to be to keep it from popping up in the TV series searches Sorry

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nochanchu · 4 years

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something about her (and that damn crinkly-eyed smile)

pairing: park sooyoung x reader genre: best friends to lovers + fake dating au / romance, fluff wc: 1,708 author’s note: completely self-indulgent. simply a scene in which miss sooyoung asks you to be her fake girlfriend because of an ex that would not stop plaguing my mind.

An invitation from the one and only Park Sooyoung brings you to her apartment for what should have been a simple studying session, but truth be told, simple just isn’t in her vocabulary.

Sooyoung is her own kind of whirlwind, one that you have had the most gracious opportunity to be swept up in. She isn’t problematic, per se, but she has had her fair share of shitty relationships and poor decision-making that has made you worry for her more often than not.

Her previous partners have either been too little or too much, and her last relationship left her a little less like her usual self. Her sudden bouts of flings afterwards and late night calls to you confirmed that.

Sooyoung wasn’t one to let the ends of relationships hurt her, at least not in this way, but she and Doyeon shared i-love-you’s and an entire summer together when they took back to back summer sessions together. Neither of which were Sooyoung’s forte, because she didn’t fall in love and she didn’t cohabitate with partners longer than a couple of evenings at a time.

Now, you’re certain she is even more adamant to keep these rules enforced as you see her phone light up with unsaved contacts. They were probably people she had met at the bar she worked at, because one glance at the screen earns the sender a distasteful click of her tongue and her attention is turned back to you instead of all the Chaucer poems you two are supposed to be transcribing for the upcoming midterm.

“Question,” she says, letting her pencil sit back on the coffee table.

To be fair though, you two have been deciphering the texts for the last hour and half, so a break does feel necessary.

“Answer,” you reply, feeling some satisfaction in hearing her snort.

Naturally, her answer isn’t one you expect. It’s hard to say what you expect from her sometimes; one minute you can guess what’s on her mind, the next minute you have to wait for her to explain her thought process. “Wouldn’t it be fun to try a relationship out?”

Your eyebrows furrow, never once had the topic of a relationship with Sooyoung ever popped up in conversation until now. “What do you mean? Why—?”

“Just to try!” she says this with a shrug; to which you raise your eyebrow.

“I don’t know. Haven’t you ever wondered what a relationship with me would be like?”

You chuckle. “You’re so full of yourself sometimes.”

Leave it to your best friend to present the somewhat taboo questions in life. Not that thinking of dating your best friend is the biggest taboo, which it isn’t, but leave it to her to ask it as if she were asking how your day was going.

“But haven’t you?” she asks, glancing at you with an indiscernible look. You can’t decide whether she is trying to parse out a specific answer or if this is genuine curiosity, and even then, you don't know what would have compelled her to ask such a question. An inkling of a feeling tells you she has motives for it though.

You gulp; it’s still such a loaded question isn’t it? Your best friend, who is gorgeous, vivacious, and all too good for any of her previous partners, was asking you if you ever considered dating her? It’d be a lie to say no. Of course, you have.

“Who hasn’t?” you blurt out, voice a little uneven. It feels like your heart might beat its way out of your chest.

That catches her off guard just a little.

“Wait, huh?”

“I just mean I think it’s a common thing for people to think of what dating their best friend is like,” you say carefully, each word chosen with care, because you find the real reason a little embarrassing. Sure, you’ve joked about being the real one that she needs in a relationship, but deep down, you mean it.

“Is that the only reason?” she asks, not wholly convinced, and with a damn good reason.

You nod, but you’re awful at half-truths.

“I believe you’re missing the part where you tell me the whole truth.”

It’s an opportunity to guffaw, at least to diffuse the situation, but it falls short in your throat.

You know you have to admit the truth then. If you’re awful at half-truths, then you’re abso-fucking-lutely terrible with whole lies. You had tried it once, and only then, because she had caught you the moment you tried to say you were fine when an ex had broken up with you on the same day he had cheated on you with someone he told you not to worry about. She knew by looking at you and was just about ready to light his ass on fire had you not needed her then.

But, to set things straight: you’re not in love with Park Sooyoung. Of all people, you know better than to let yourself fall in love with her. That’s asking for hurt. But wishing you could date her? Show her what a relationship should be for her? Yeah, you’ve thought of it on more than one occasion, and you tell her that.

“I’ve thought about dating you,” you admit to her. “I’ve considered what it would be like, how I’d treat you better than half of those other people you’ve gone out with, because I think you deserve a million times better than any of those assholes. It’s embarrassing, I know, and you’re in no desire to get into another relationship, but yeah, I mean it. I’d date you if only for that reason.”

“So you think you could make it convincing if we tried it?” she asks, tilting her head at you.

“Huh?” This time it’s your turn to be thrown off guard.

“Is this where you tell me what brought all of this on?” You can tell your cheeks are burning; while you’re used to being vulnerable with Sooyoung, you also don’t like to act as though you know what’s better for her. You know your own capabilities of what you can do and offer her, and you know that a real relationship for you two could spell inevitable trouble if things go sour, and the idea of jeopardizing that feels more unsettling than being exposed to your own whims of seeing your best friend happy.

“Well, do you want to try being together then?” she says all of this without batting much of an eyelash. If anything, she seems amused more than anything else; over what exactly flies over your head as you feel your cheeks burning even hotter.

You say her name, more so in warning than in a whine, but you can’t even tell if your voice is strong enough to come off intimidating with the way her eyes seem to crinkle with her smile.

“Ah, c’mon,” she giggles, “you’re too cute when you’re trying to be serious, you know that?”

You shake your head at her, pursing your lips.

She exhales, leaning closer to you on the coffee table. It makes you hyper aware of both your positions. Somehow facing her with only this glass top table feels too intimate for you, like you two are entering uncharted territory, what with the confession in the air and now her sudden proposition. You never know what to expect with her.

“I just--I’m sorry,” she tells you, with a quiver to her laugh.

This time it’s your turn to tilt your head at her. “What’s going on?” you ask, none of the potential conclusions making much sense in your head. She didn’t suddenly awaken with the desire to be in a relationship, least of all with you. This feels similar to the time she had you accompany her to her aunt’s wedding for the sake of saving face when an ex of her blew her off at the last minute.

“Doyeon started working at the bar.”

“Oh--” you blink. “Are you alright?”

“I’m managing,” she tells you with a less than convincing nod, “but I didn’t realize it would suck this much to see her again. She’s been coming around with her current plaything, because he can’t seem to leave her alone, and it just… sucks.”

“Oh Sooyoung,” you sigh, reaching over to put your hand atop of hers. “Do you need me to be your hot best friend-turned-significant other?”

She smiles, the crinkly-eyed one, that you consider rather contagious.

“Maybe, yeah.”

“She never did like me all that much,” you tell her. “She always looked like she wanted to murder me every time I came around.”

Sooyoung leans in, as if to tell you a secret, and whispers, “She did. She thought you actually had the hots for me, and would eventually steal me away. Some dumb shit like that. I always told her you weren’t the homewrecking type.”

“Of course, she felt threatened by me,” you snicker. “Well, if you need me to be your new plaything, I agree.”

She rolls her eyes at you. “You’re not a plaything,” her tone is gentle, and she changes the position of your hands so she’s the one holding yours, “but I appreciate your acceptance to being my fake girlfriend.”

“Of course,” you scoff playfully, “what else am I here for?”

“Apparently, to show me what a good girlfriend is supposed to be,” she retorts, earning a squeak from you.

“Shut up!”

She laughs, still a rather pretty sound. “I appreciate that though, Y/N. You’re always looking out for me.”

“I’d be a really shitty best friend if I didn’t want the best for you, you know. But, also, let me just say that I didn’t mean it to be prescriptive or whatever. I just want to see you happy.” And it’s true, that’s all you want for Sooyoung. She’s so headstrong and passionate; she loves wholeheartedly and knows what she wants; so, more than anything, you want her to have someone that can match that, or if anything, keep up with her and support her just as she should be in her endeavors.

“Well, you make me happy,” she says with a smile. That same damn crinkly-eyed smile.

It makes your heart flutter, just a little.

#joy scenarios #joy imagines #joy fanfic #joy fic #joy au #sooyoung scenarios #sooyoung imagines #sooyoung fanfic #sooyoung fic #red velvet fic #sooyoung au #red velvet scenarios #red velvet fanfic #red velvet imagines #red velvet au #girl group scenarios #joy x reader #sooyoung x reader #emwrites

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violetsmoak · 4 years

Text

Philtatos [13/?]

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20101543/chapters/47690671

Blanket Disclaimer

Summary: During a patrol where Red Hood and Red Robin cross paths, Jason is infected with the blood of the Eros, the ancient God of Love, who informs them that they must track down his missing bow and arrows, or Jason will go slowly mad with an obsessive desire–for Tim. Though overwhelmed by the sudden attention being paid to him, Tim sets to work trying to solve the case, before Jason succumbs to madness. In the meantime, Jason discovers that there’s more than godlike powers at work here, as well as a legacy that reaches back through the sands of time.

Rating: PG-13 (rating may change later)

Beta Reader: None at the moment.

JayTimBingo Prompts This Chapter: #fatal flaw #secrets #riddle #fate #revenge #oracle #betrayal #prophecy #jealousy

First Chapter

________________________________________________________________

Tim feels a little bad about using Jason’s skin hunger against him but only for a moment. Any concern about that vanishes when he peeks back at Jason as they walk, and observes the color returning to the other man’s cheeks. The hand clasped in his own stops shaking the longer they touch.

Tim has never been one to enjoy holding hands—often he’s felt uncomfortable or self-conscious, worrying about sweaty fingers or whether the other person might consider it lame—but this doesn’t feel like that.

This feels right.

It’s actually concerning how right it feels, especially in light of his recent discussion with Steph.

Stop it. This isn’t about you. It’s about putting Jason at ease.

They return to the containment unit to find Barbara facing down Eros—an impressive feat considering she’s in a wheelchair and he’s the one looking down on her. Her face is drawn in irritation, and he’s gratified to see that Eros seems put-out about something.

“Took you long enough. Cherry here says she’s got a bonafide prophecy from the Oracle of Delphi and wouldn’t share it until you got back.” He eyes their entwined hands and leers. “I take it the domestics are going well?”

“Get bent,” Tim snaps in irritation as Jason tugs his hand back so fast he might as well have been burned.

“Only if you do the honors, pretty boy.”

Jason growls and makes a move for his gun, but Tim reaches out to stop him.

“Can you not tease him?” he demands of Eros. “Especially when the only reason he’s like this is because of you.”

“Oh, if only you knew…”

Before Tim can comment on that, Jason interrupts.

“What’s the feathered freak talkin’ about?” he snaps, radiating tension. “What prophecy?”

“The one Signal was able to recover from the girl that was killed,” Barbara says coolly. “He transcribed it and sent it along. Do you want to hear it, or do you want to keep acting like a child?”

This she directs at Eros, who actually does look chastised a beat, before gracing her with a cool smile.

“I guess it is apropos if you do the honors, darlin’,” Eros says with a cool smile. “Is it ironic or coincidental if someone who stole the title of oracle interprets a prophecy from the actual Oracle of Delphi?”

“Who cares? This whole situation is making me hate both irony and coincidence,” Tim says.

“It’s making me wonder if there are any coincidences,” Jason mutters, eyes fixed on Eros in intense dislike.

Barbara offers him an identical look, before thumbing the screen of her phone and opening her incoming messages.

Then she begins to read:

“The Unseen darkness cannot keep its captive thrice for mortal masks the divine that seeks its reward in the city where dark nights conceal the greatest of secrets.

“Crossed beneath the stars when the Rager’s Moon is full, eternal freedom is neigh upon the eleventh moment of the small hour.The sacrifice of the virgin gifts triumph to the prisoner and that which drowned in Lethe’s tears is reborn.

“But take heed, for the winged scion of Cythera, willingly blinded by the veil of vengeance revealed by Discord’s most cursed boon, awakens the warrior guided by the Physicians heir.

“Fury dooms the fair, heralding the return of magnificent Alexandros and one whose name is painted in blood and stone.

“Greatest of loves, damned by the gleam of a golden barb, torn asunder by jealousy and parted by cruel death, they will stand against Strife.

“Titans will rise and one who Death names hero, betrayed yet shielded by love, will sunder the chains of Aidoneus and avenge the victim of grievance. One will be born anew, the other bound eternally to Stygian Darkness.”

There is silence as she puts the phone down, eyebrows drawn together in thought.

“What?” Tim says.

“I see your ‘what’ and raise you a ‘the fuck’,” Jason adds. “Does any of that make sense to anyone else? Because it don't make sense to me.”

“Blame my uncle,” Eros says, apparently annoyed.

“What? Why?” Tim wants to know. “Which one’s he?”

“Apollo,” Barbara says, still considering the puzzling words on the screen. “Aside from being a sun god, he was also the god of prophecy.”

“Talking in riddles is his favorite pastime,” Eros agrees. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“I’ll bet,” Tim agrees. “We’ve got someone like that here in Gotham.”

“Yeah, and he’s a frequent guest of Arkham, so what’s that tell you?” Jason grumbles.

“That people who come up with riddles have too much time on their hands.”

“There’s a reason the Oracles of Delphi didn’t put their predictions into simple words,” Barbara points out. ”If you give people information about what’s coming, how do you know you’re not ensuring it will or won’t come to pass? It was important for them to be seen as the medium of the message and not an agent.

“By keeping information vague, it would seem like they were allowing a querant the chance to defy fate, while at the same time allowing fate to take its natural course, whatever that might be,” Eros agrees. “Ans it was good insurance. Even Oracles needed to cover their asses. You were less likely to get your head lopped off by a visiting king that received news he didn’t want to hear. And whatever the outcome, they could still say, ‘we told you so’.” He considers Barbara. “You know, I don’t usually find brainy sexy, but you might just turn me.”

“I’m thrilled,” she deadpans.

“So what’s all this supposed to mean, anyway?” Tim asks, trying to bring the discussion back to the matter at hand.

“It could mean anything. Though to start with, that bit about ‘unseen darkness’, that’s an epithet for the Underworld in old Hellenic documents.”

“We called it that in the old days,” Eros confirms.

“And then there’s the part about someone captive in Hades.”

“I thought Hades was a person?” Tim says.

“It is. But it’s also a place.” Jason tells him.

“It depends on what story and what source you’re drawing from,” Barbara elaborates. “And what translation.”

“What about the next bit? About mortal maskin' the divine?”

“Could that mean whoever’s possessing Carrie Cutter?” Tim suggests. “We’ve already established she’s got help from a god, and if they’re inhabiting her body even for short amounts of time, it’s a pretty effective mask.”

“No doubt,” Eros agrees. “Not so sure about that part with dark nights, but I guess it’s referring to this cesspool you people call a city.”

Tim, Jason and Barbara exchange glances, knowing exactly how dark nights and secrets relate to their city.

Maybe Duke misheard. It might not be dark ‘nights’ so much as dark ‘knights’. Which makes sense, considering Bruce and Dick both have that title depending on the day.

“Safe to say it’s Gotham,” Tim confirms. “So all that begs the question, do you have any idea who’s locked in the Underworld trying to get out?”

Eros snorts. “The better question is who isn’t locked in the Underworld.”

Jason is glaring furiously at Eros, clearly growing tired of his evasive and snarky answers. The way his fists clench, Tim suspects he’s close to throwing a punch at the glass in frustration. Not something Tim wants to see, especially given Jason’s injuries from their altercation with Carrie Cutter and Dick haven’t even been seen to yet.

God, it feels like it was days ago but it was only hours. He probably came right here to confront Eros without even looking after himself.

He has to put that out of his mind for now. Deciphering any clues in the prophecy takes momentary precedence.

“…. A lot of myths end with someone displeasing a god and getting sent to Tartarus, so he has a point,” Barbara is saying, her thumbs busily texting something on her phone.

“So that’s not going to tell us anything,” Tim decides. “What about the ‘crossed beneath the stars’ part?”

“More of the same in terms of pinpointing when everything is supposed to happen,” Eros says.

“Which is when?”

“November twenty-third,” Barbara says, frowning at the small screen in her hand.

Jason looks askance. “How d’you know?”

“'Moon’ equates to month, and another name for Zeus was the Rager,” she replies. “So, Zeus’s month. According to the Athenian calendars we still have access to, Zeus’s month was Maimakterion—which in modern times would fall somewhere between November and December. And the next full moon—” She holds up her phone, showing a lunar calendar for the month, “—falls on November twenty-third. It’s the only full moon that falls during Maimakterion.”

Eros nods along in approval. “What she said.”

“And the small hour?”

“Midnight.”

“So, whatever’s supposed to happen is going to happen eleven minutes after midnight…assuming that’s what moment means,” Tim muses, glancing at his own phone calendar. “That’s this Friday.”

“Five days from now,” Jason agrees, and side-eyes Tim. “We’ve all had shorter deadlines.”

“That’s not necessarily referring to your deadline, sweet cheeks,” Eros reminds him. “I figure you have about half that.”

“No thanks to you.”

“You know, the last Jason I knew wasn’t this whiny.”

“Children,” Barbara says sharply. “Let’s stay focused, shall we? I’m concerned about this virgin sacrifice part—specifically the part where it ensures success for someone we probably don’t want to succeed.”

“Cutter did kill that girl,” Tim reminds them. “Maybe it was some kind of offering, so she’d be successful at whatever she’s trying to do.”

“It’s a good an explanation as anything else,” Eros agrees, examining his nails. “We always did love our human sacrifices. And a virgin does increase the likelihood of something working out to your advantage.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” Jason growls. “That’s a kid you’re talking about!”

“And as an Oracle of Delphi she’s entitled to an eternity of bliss once she enters the Underworld,” Eros dismisses. “It’s a better end than some people are entitled to.”

Jason’s eyes blaze as if that’s a personal insult. Tim can certainly empathize.

“What about the second part?” he prompts. “What’s Lethe?”

“The Lethe was the river the souls drank from to forget their previous lives before being reincarnated,” Barbara explains.

“The Ancient Greeks believed in reincarnation? But I thought that was something from the Far East?”

“Many ancient cultures had a concept of reincarnation beyond the Hindu and Buddhist mythos,” Barbara explains. “Just look at the belief systems of the indigenous peoples of North America and you’ll see countless examples. And they didn’t have any contact with the civilizations of Asia during the time when those faiths were evolving.”

Beside Tim, Jason is as stiff as a board and appears to be having trouble breathing. Automatically, Tim edges closer to him, and though he doesn’t outright take his hand—he leans into him, nudging him with his shoulder.

Jason’s eyes dart to him for a moment, and he relaxes incrementally.

“How does that relate here though?” Barbara wants to know.

“Maybe the prisoner forgot something,” Eros suggests, not sounding very interested.

“Or maybe whoever’s tryin' to escape Hades as made to forget something,” Jason counters darkly.

“Only mortals can be made to forget by drinking from the Lethe,” Barbara says. “The prisoner could have been human. Salmoneus or Tantalus or one of the Dainads.”

Tim doesn’t even get a chance to question who they are before Eros interrupts. “Actually, it’s a little broader than just mortals. More like mortals, demigods that haven’t consumed ambrosia, giants, hybrids—”

“So again, we’re back to a broad spectrum of people it could be talkin' about,” Jason complains. “Great. Is there anyone or anything in this stupid prophecy that isn’t doublespeak?”

“Well, the next verse is pretty self-explanatory. Obviously, we’re talking about yours truly,” Eros says, pointing at himself. “What other 'winged son' do you know from mythology?”

“A case could be made for Pegasus.”

“No, it’s Eros,” Tim says. “Cythera’s another name for Aphrodite.” Everyone looks at him in surprise.

“How do you know that?” Jason asks, but where the emphasis ought to suggest incredulity, he sounds impressed.

Tim tries not to bask in that.

“My parents used to visit the island of Cythera a lot when they weren’t on business trips, especially before I was born. It was their favorite vacation destination. Full of history, not touristy—they didn’t like having to socialize with people when they were on vacation.”

Tim falls silent then, remembering sitting in his living room with his parents, pouring over their vacation photos of the Mediterranean island while they told stories. They’d always promised to take him one day…

He glances up and notices the others are watching him now—Eros with a sharp, calculating gaze while Jason appears concerned. As for Barbara, she seems to sense his discomfort, because she navigates them past the lull. “Okay, so if it’s Eros, what are you wanting revenge for? It’s not exactly your M-O.”

“I can think of a few people who have it coming,” Eros answers. “Starting with my mother.”

“What’d she do?” Tim asks.

“Do you have a few centuries worth of couch time?”

“Isn’t she the reason your wife died?” Barbara wants to know. “In the myth, she survived, but Tim told me that's not what happened in reality.”

Eros expression goes cold.

“That’s right,” Tim remembers; he and Eros had this conversation a few days ago, didn’t they? “Aphrodite is the one who sent Psyche to the underworld.”

Eros bares his teeth. “One of her many sins, but not the only one.”

“Then couldn’t the prophecy maybe be referring to her? Psyche, I mean? Maybe she’s the prisoner.”

“Are you implying my wife is the one behind your Cupid’s actions?” Eros growls. “Because that’s impossible.”

“How would you know? It could be—”

“Because she died a mortal! Her soul is mortal and wouldn’t have the power to escape the Underworld in any capacity! Furthermore, Psyche would never kill or arrange the death of anyone! She was good and pure of soul and that’s why I fell in love with her.”

“That’s not what I read,” Barbra says. “Didn’t you prick yourself on one of your golden arrows while watching her?”

“I pricked myself because I fell in love with her,” he snaps. “I’ve already told Jason here that the arrows only work to magnify emotions that are already there.”

“That makes no sense. You liked her before you made yourself fall in love with her?”

“Look, you know the story: Psyche was beautiful. So much so, that the idiots in her kingdom started treating her like a living goddess, bringing the gifts meant for my mother to this human princess. You can guess how well that went over.”

“Right. She sent you to make her fall in love with a horrible beast.”

“Yeah, one of Diomedes mares. Gorgeous animals—people would stop and stare at them for hours. Also, vicious, flesh-eating beasts. Just getting to close to one of those and it would have ripped her to shreds—and she would have stood there and let it.” Eros’ expression becomes soft, eyes faraway at the memory. “If she had been some arrogant, selfish royal I would have let it happen. But I watched her for days while I tried to put her in the path of that thing. And everything she did was just good and kind. I had never seen as pure a soul like hers.” He shakes his head. “The idea of a girl like that being sent to her death just because a bunch of idiot humans had the audacity to praise her alongside my mother didn’t seem fair.”

“And you’re all about fair, aren’t you?” Jason sneers.

Tim has to agree; if Eros cared about fair, he would have been a lot more helpful about curing Jason and wouldn’t have demanded they find his diviners beforehand.

“I was young and stupid, and I didn’t realize the world didn’t work that way,” Eros dismisses. “Even for gods. I thought my mother would never want to harm me—and so if I put Psyche under my protection, she couldn’t hurt her. And if I could show my mother what a good wife Psyche was, even if she was unable to see me, it would prove the point.” He snorts. “It didn’t exactly go my way.”

“And there’s no way her soul could have somehow been corrupted when she died?”

“The Underworld is stagnant. There’s no such thing as change or time there. Everything occurs both in one moment and in all moments there.”

“So you’re saying a soul going in would remain in the same state as it was when it died,” Barbara posits.

“Exactly. How else do you expect the judges to judge souls if they kept changing after death? It’d be a headache.

“Then if it’s not Psyche, who else can you think of that it might be?”

“It might be more than one person,” Tim suggests. “That line about 'greatest of loves'—what if that’s why Carrie’s been targeting couples? She hears the prophecy—or whoever’s riding along inside her hears the prophecy—and thinks there’s a couple out there that’s going to stand against her. She could be trying to eliminate potential threats to her end goal.”

“If so, we need to decipher her criteria for choosing her victims. You already said it didn’t seem like they had anything in common.”

“We’ll have to check again. Maybe now that we’ve got this prophecy, something new will jump out.”

“We skipped a whole verse,” Jason points out. “The ‘warrior guided by the physician’s heir’. Any ideas?”

Eros shrugs. “Since the rest of the prophecy involves me, I’d say it’s me.”

“How do you figure?”

“The Physician is another name for Apollo.”

“So?”

“So, who do you think taught me archery? Next to him, I’m the greatest archer among the Olympians.”

“Or it could be Jason,” Tim ponders.

Jason seems to go pale, almost panicked. “What?”

“I mean, assuming you’re interpreting ‘awaken’ by activating the way you do with a sleeper agent. You infected him with your blood however accidentally and then pressed him into doing your dirty work.”

“I resent your tone, boy,” Eros grumbles, but Jason interjects, “And the other bit?”

“The other bit is just really literal,” Barbara catches on. “Jason, you were trained by Batman. Who was the heir to an actual physician. The M.D. kind.”

Thomas Wayne.

Jason looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Shit.”

Eros watches Jason, inscrutable eyes considering; Jason glares back at him as if waiting for him to make a comment.

“But if it’s Jason, the next bit wouldn’t make sense,” Barbara says after a moment. “‘Magnificent Alexandros’. The only Alexandros I can think of off the top of my head if Alexander of Macedon. But that doesn’t really track with the rest of the verse. He was a historical figure, not mythological.”

“That’s offensive, you know,” Eros drawls. “All those stories you call mythology actually happened.”

“Then why don’t we have an archaeological record for them?”

“Because screw you, that’s why.”

“If it is talking about Alexander the Great, Robin will be happy,” Tim says with a rueful smirk.

Jason is perplexed. “Why?”

“Apparently he was on the list of the kid’s League-approved childhood heroes. Mother-son bonding time seems to have included traveling in his footsteps as preparation for world domination.”

Jason looks surprised and amused. “Really?”

“Is it that surprising?”

“No, it’s just…” Jason shakes his head. “Never mind.” He clears his throat. “So, back to the prophecy. It talks about the Titans—are we talkin' the creatures the Olympian gods overthrew?”

“Well, whenever one of us mention the Titans, it is usually those bottom feeders rotting in Tartarus, yes,” Eros says dryly, inscrutable focussed on Jason. “Them going free is never a good thing. Don’t believe me, read the Titanomachy. Hesiod got it pretty close to right.”

“Could be the goal, could be the result,” Tim suggests.

“Which brings us back to possibly being on the lookout for more than one prisoner escaping Hades,” Barbara says.

“And all of that leads us to the typical ‘one shall live and one shall die’ device,” Eros concludes.

“Only we don’t know who either of those is.”

“I can tell you now if it’s a prophecy involving me, I have no intention of dying."

“If it’s even about you. It’s not really an exact science, interpreting this sort of thing,” Barbara warns. “Even an Olympian like you can misunderstand—there’s evidence of that in the myths. In fact, I’m sure we’re missing more than is good for us. It will take some time to decipher it and we need more information.”

“At least we have something,” Tim maintains. “The exact date when it’s going to happen and where. We can begin preparing for that.”

“It’s a whole hell of a lot to think about,” Jason agrees.

“Which you can do back at the Cave. We only came here to see if Eros could shed some light on the prophecy or see the arrows.”

“What arrows?”

“Wonder Girl told us that to reverse what’s been done to Nightwing is to remove the arrow that Carrie stabbed him with.”

“Uh, there is no arrow,” Jason says. “Cupid took it with her, remember?”

“I guess that answers that question,” Barbara sighs. “You can’t see them.”

“Of course he can’t,” Eros says. “I’m the only one that can see the wounds caused by my arrows. Even this pseudo-Cupid wouldn’t be able to see them.”

“After she stabbed Jason she seemed to be looking for something, so I’m not sure about that,” Tim argues.

“She can’t see them. Though it may be possible her divine passenger might. I don't know. Never had another god take my diviners before."

“Speaking of being stabbed,” Tim goes on, nodding at the bruises coming out on his face. There are likely more hidden by the leather jacket and gear. “You should get those looked at.”

“I didn’t physically get stabbed, you know. Magic wounds don’t need to be looked at.”

“You went toe-to-toe with an enhanced fighter and Batman. You could have internal bleeding for all we know.”

“If you think a little tussle with that dick is going to do lastin' damage—”

Tim cuts off his indignation. “I don’t, but you haven’t been eating or sleeping properly, and your system is already compromised, so how do you know what damage was or wasn’t done? You didn’t stay to get treated at the Cave.”

Their eyes meet, remembering exactly why that is, and Tim’s cheeks darken. Jason is the first to look away, though.

“It’s nothin'. I can patch myself up whenever.”

“I can help—”

“I’m good.”

“Jason—”

“I’m an adult and I’ve been treatin' myself without help for years now,” Jason interrupts tensely. When Tim can’t stop himself from flinching, Jason’s eyes flash with dismay. “I mean…” He flounders like he’s trying to take it back, and instead changes the subject. “Didn’t you say somethin' about a list? Maybe get started on that and I’ll do an injury check myself.”

It’s a clear cop-out, and if they were alone, Tim would be calling him on it.

“I’ll ask for help if I need any,” he adds, awkwardly, like it’s been a long time since anyone actually cared about his injuries being treated.

Barbara glances between the two of them, obviously sensing the undertone, but not commenting on it. Instead, she says, “I don’t mind helping Jason. Besides, Red Robin needs to contact the Family and let them know what we know.”

“And I need food,” Eros says. “I haven’t eaten since before you went on your little reconnaissance mission. Can’t you see? I’m wasting away.”

“If only,” Jason mutters.

Tim is torn, wanting to argue that he can help Jason, but at the same time trying to respect the other man’s obvious need for distance.

At last, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, feeling a little defeated. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make a food run…you get yourself fixed up.”

“Whatever you say, babybird.”

⁂

Once Tim vanishes, Barbie indicates with a jerk of her head that Jason should follow her upstairs to the Nest medbay. He knows better than to think it’s just her wanting to take a look at his injuries—like him, she’s probably looking for some privacy.

They take the elevator up in silence, and Jason wonders vaguely when the last time was, he was this close to Barbara Gordon.

I don’t think I have been, actually. We both avoid the manor unless there’s no choice. And we both have good reasons for it. And when we are there together, there’s usually about six to ten feet of distance between us.

They were never what he would call close before she was paralyzed and he died. Barbie was Dick’s girl and Jason’s occasional babysitter until the Joker ruined her life. And then she wasn’t around at all. Jason wasn’t alive to watch her painstakingly drag herself up and pull it together again, so he never got the chance to interact with the Barbara Gordon that became Oracle.

Since returning to Gotham he’s kept her at a distance as much as he did the rest of the Family, so it’s somewhat surprising to him that she’s here now and working to help him.

Probably it’s on account of Tim.

Still silent, they enter the surgically pristine room of the Nest’s medical wing—and Jason is a little jealous of the supplies here. It makes the kits he has in his safehouses about as sophisticated as a needle and threat.

Barbie watches him, framed in the doorway.

“Well? Spit it out,” he grunts, deciding to get whatever reprimands are forthcoming out of the way.

Her look turns sharp before she reaches into her jacket pocket for something; Jason can’t help tensing up, even though she knows the likelihood of her pulling a weapon on him are slim to none.

That suspicion is confirmed when she instead draws out a device and turns it on; there’s a high-pitched background whir that Jason recognizes as a listening device scrambler.

Clearly we’re both aware of what a paranoid freak Timbers can be.

“Okay, Jason, what’s going on?” she asks without preamble. “You know Tim only wants to help you.”

“Yeah, at his own expense,” he retorts sourly.

Barbies raises an eyebrow as if waiting for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, she presses, “You’re being cagey. And it’s more than just worrying about losing control around Tim, I can tell.”

“Oh you can, can you?” he challenges.

“I’ve known you since you were still desperately trying to live up to Dick while pretending like you didn’t care. I know when you’re hiding something,” she folds her arms. “Believe it or not, Jason, you’re a terrible liar when it comes to things that matter.”

It’s reflex to want to say something caustic to that, but he stops himself in time. He needs Barbara’s help and pissing her off isn’t going to make his life any easier.

“I need a favor,” he admits after a beat.

“Another one?” she repeats, sounding like she doesn’t believe him. “You’re going to owe me a lot.”

“Yeah, well, now would be the time to collect on those debts while I still can.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means everyone else is tiptoein' around the subject, but at some point, I’m gonna need to be put under,” he says, erring on the side of just enough truth to keep her from questioning him further. “We both know what I’m talkin' about here.”

As expected, Barbara only just keeps herself from visibly recoiling; she’s already ready with an argument. “You don’t know we won’t find something before that happens.”

“I’m already feelin' like I’m livin' in someone else’s skin—” Literally, in a way. “—I’m not gonna get any better than I am right now. We’ve already seen what it looks like when I dip toward worse. So while I’m still lucid, let me make my decisions. And my decision is, I’d rather go under while I’m still me instead of violent, mindless…reaver.”

Barbara does a minor double-take. “Did you just make a Firefly reference?”

“It’s the last series I was watching before I died,” Jason says, a little defensive.

“I’m not judging, just surprised. Dick and Tim are usually the ones making pop-culture references to deflect. I’m not used to it from you.”

“And I’m not used to you stallin',” he counters. “You’re different from the other Bats, O. You know how to cut your losses, and you know how to make decisions when no one else wants to think about it. You get makin' the hard calls. So, I’m gonna ask you: when it comes down to a choice between me and Tim—and I mean when, not if—who do you save?”

Something like pain passes over her face, and then resolve hardens her face. “Tim.”

“Exactly,” he approves. “Because unlike me, he’s good. And smart.”

“You’re both of those things, even if you pretend like you’re not,” she protests.

“And he hasn’t committed multiple murders,” Jason continues, acting like he didn’t hear her. “Not that what I’ve done wasn’t justified. It wasn’t good, but I don’t regret it because I will go to my grave believin' sometimes that line needs to be crossed. Again. But it’s still a line Tim’s been lucky enough not to have to cross.”

She doesn’t argue with him, instead inclines her head.

“More people will miss him if he were gone then they would me,” Jason concludes. “I’m not supposed to be here anyway.”

There’s a long beat of measuring silence. Then, Barbara sighs. “What is it you need, Jason?”

He tilts his chin in gratitude.

“I didn’t just come here to yell at Eros,” he admits. “If Wonder Woman doesn’t show up, he’s the only one I know who has access to the stuff I need.”

“The Stygian Sleep.”

“Yeah. But it’s probably in GCPD lock-up.” He gives her a quick run-down of events, minus anything about Eros’ intentional plan to infect him. Babs listens, jaw set and eyes narrowed; given what she just said about him, she likely knows he’s not being completely truthful, but his explanation clearly holds enough water that she doesn’t call him on it.

“I’ll get someone to look into it,” she decides at last.

Which, even though he’s relieved about, he’s also suspicious.

“And by ‘look into’ you mean grab hold of and perform a million tests on it before handin' it over,” he posits.

“Just because you’re hellbent on using something that’s effectively going to kill you doesn’t mean I don’t want to know everything about it first,” she says, unapologetic. “Like the prophecy, it might have clues about how to circumvent it.”

“Yeah, because we’re having so much luck with that.”

“Also, when Bruce comes to me later in a righteous fury for letting his son die a second time, I’ll be able to assure him we knew everything we did about it before making an informed decision.”

Jason doesn’t pretend to believe that’s the end of it. Barbara might be willing to humor Jason a little more than Bruce, or even Dick when he’s not compromised—she might even be a little more objective in considering things, but she’s not going to trust Jason’s plan to be the only plan. She’ll have her own contingencies, the same as any Bat.

The only difference with Babs is that once it’s over and done with, and it becomes clear there’s no saving him, she’ll have an easier time getting over it than Bruce will. And she won’t let it compromise her work.

Tim’s told Jason what Bruce and Dick were like after he died the first time, and if it happens again, Gotham needs someone competent in keeping things in check.

And Tim…

Jason’s heart thuds with guilt.

This time, Tim won’t just be sweeping in to pick up the broken pieces of Batman and Nightwing as he did as a kid. He won’t be watching it from the sidelines.

The memory hits him then. To his surprise, it’s not from Achilleus or Alexandros.

Jason hates Wayne Charity galas.

People are always staring at him, murmuring through pasted-on smiles that even if he couldn’t read lips, he would be able to hear the judgment dripping from their words. These people are so achingly dry and genteel, their teeth don’t even unclench around their vowels.

Bruce doesn’t make him come to all that many of these shindigs, thankfully; only the ones involving children’s advocacy and the like. Jason doesn’t mind those too much, considering their purpose. He just hates that even at those—like the one tonight—he’s the only kid that has to parade around in the straitjacket Alfred calls a tux.

He gets it, of course; he’s the poster-boy, the success story, a means of showing the rich snobs how well a dirty Crime Alley orphan can clean up so that they’ll open their checkbooks.

It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Except for tonight, for the first time, he noticed another kid that’s been dragged along. A tiny boy whose meticulously fitted tux still manages to look too big for him.

A man and woman who must be his parents are chatting with another couple, seemingly oblivious to the way their son is staring into the distance, a neutrally polite expression fixed on his face. He might as well be sleeping standing up, and Jason has the odd suspicion that’s by design.

That makes his mouth twitch; maybe rich kids get bored with this kind of thing too.

Jason keeps staring across the manor ballroom until the strange kid senses his gaze and looks up. He grins when the boy’s eyes widen—their color is startling, even from across the room, and they take up practically his whole face—and wonders at the sudden flood of color in his cheeks.

He’s about to motion the boy over to the edge of the reception area—hanging out with another kid, even a little one, will definitely break up the monotony of the evening—when Bruce’s hand falls hard on his shoulder.

“Time to make an exit, son,” he says, voice quiet and intense and incongruent with the false smile he’s still beaming at everyone within a ten-foot radius. From the distracted note in his words, Jason doesn’t even need to look out the window to see the signal lighting up the sky.

They meet Felipe Garzonas that night, and he doesn’t think of the boy again.

Jason shudders as the technicolor recollection fades out, his stomach twisting angrily.

He’s never made the connection between Tim and the boy at the fundraiser before. It occurs to him how stupid that was—at the same time it occurs to him that if not for that case that night, he might not have been on the outs with Bruce. He might have endured more Wayne event galas instead of limiting whatever time he was with Bruce to being Robin by night. He might have gotten to know Tim in this life, instead of dying.

He might not be in this damned predicament right now.

“Jason?”

He looks up, realizes that Barbie is watching him with concern. He is quick to revisit their conversation and mutters, “Yeah, fine. Just make sure the stuff actually makes it to me before my brain dribbles out of my head, okay?”

“Stop being so dramatic,” she replies, reaching out to turn off the scrambler device, though she continues to exude suspicion.

“All Bats are dramatic, or have you forgotten?” he quips back, offering an irreverent smirk to cover up.

“Hard to forget something you live with every day,” she returns dryly. “Now get over here and let me check you over.”

“You don’t need to,” he points out. “I’ve had worse than this, you know.”

“Yes, yes, we’re all aware you’ve died and come back, who hasn’t these days?” she returns. “Now, shirt off, or I’m telling Tim you didn’t do what you said you would.”

Jason glares. “This is going to become a thing, isn’t it? You people using Tim to make me do things.”

“Things that are for your own good, yes. Now strip, Todd.”

“Yes, mother…”

“You wish your mother was as cool as me.”

Which Jason can’t argue with, because she’s right; he’s had a total of three mother figures in his life (two of which he’s not sure even qualify because of how messed up they were), and none of them have been as capable or decent as Barbara Gordon.

Once he’s shrugged his top half out of the body armor and leather, she reaches for him.

Jason experiences a nauseous swoop in his stomach at the idea of anyone but Tim putting hands on him. Instantly, his hand snaps up and knocks hers back.

“Don’t touch me!” he snarls.

Barbara pulls away, watching him with a raised eyebrow and instantly Jason is overwhelmed with shame.

“Sorry,” he bites out. “I didn’t mean…”

“We can wait for Tim to get back,” she suggests, instantly understanding.

Alarms blare in his head at the thought; he shakes his head. “No. No, I’m…I’m good. Now that I’m expectin' it.”

She considers him several beats longer and then makes the next attempt to check his injuries. This time he concentrates on forcing the sick feeling away and tries to ignore how it feels like someone is rubbing sandpaper across his skin.

That’s a new symptom. Great. Because it wasn’t enough that I’ve been trying to claw my skin of myself, now other people get to do it too…

Barbara checks him over with quiet efficiency, evaluating the shallow slash between his arm and shoulder which his armor didn’t cover, as well the bruising along his hips, elbows and lower back.

“It could be worse,” she decides eventually, considering the mottled purpling across his chest. “Ribs are bruised, not broken.”

“I could've told you that…”

“And were you going to tell me about that?” she points at his shoulder and the spiderweb of gold leeching out around the long-healed-over bullet wound. From the way he’s been itching at it this past day, he doesn’t need a mirror to know it’s beginning to creep up his neck as well. “How long has it been growing like that?”

“Pretty much since I got it,” he replies.

She reaches up, brow furrowed and reaches toward one of the raised lines winding toward his chest. Again, he braces himself for the pain of the touch his body doesn’t want.

Thankfully, she barely grazes that. “You haven’t been keeping better track, have you? It might give us a more specific idea of how much time you have.”

“How so?”

“The same as any poison, I would guess. The closer it gets to your heart, the less time you have.”

He frowns. “At this point, I don’t think it even matters.”

Movement outside of the med bay window draws his attention, and he across the floor to see Tim climbing the stairs from the ground floor.

Jason is quick to grab his shirt and tug it on; it’s not something he wants to discuss with Tim just yet.

Barbara watches him, lips pursed in worry and disapproval, but he could care less about the latter. She knows his thoughts on this, and she’ll respect them.

Tim strides in and then slows like he’s wondering if he’s supposed to knock or not.

“How are you doing?” he asks, hesitant like he’s afraid expressing concern will set Jason off like a bomb.

Guilt hits him at that, but he forces himself to remain calm and blank-faced. “Fine.”

“I have to go,” Barbie announces, maneuvering her chair toward the door. “I need to go back to the Cave and check on Dick’s condition. I don’t know how long it will be before he tries to escape or pull something to keep from going nuts.”

“Also, it’d be nice if this month was one of the ones where Alfred doesn’t get knocked out,” Tim suggests with false levity.

“Or lose a hand,” Jason mutters darkly.

“Exactly. And whether he knows it or not, Feathers downstairs gave me some ideas about how to remove the arrow,” Barbie says as they leave the med bay.

“I should come with you.”

“No.” Both Barbara and Tim speak at the same time, but she’s the one that keeps talking. “You should stay here.”

“Not sure that’s the best idea.”

“I think it is,” Tim counters. “It will keep us out of everyone’s hair and they’ll know where we are.” His tone is reasonable—too reasonable; clearly Timmy has some ulterior motives.

Whether those motives are to circumvent Bruce or Jason’s plans, he doesn’t care. But one thing is for sure. “They can know where we are if we’re at the manor.”

And isn’t that a reversal—Jason being the one to insist on that?

I need to have people around because I don’t trust myself right now.

The mutinous expression is back on Tim’s face, before he visibly switches tactics.

“Okay, how about this,” he suggests, tone only a shade off exasperated. “Why don’t you go lie down somewhere and try to catch a few hours' sleep? If you’re sleeping, you’re not doing anything else, right? And then we’ll either go back to the Cave or see if anyone can be spared to chaperone here.”

“There’s no need for that,” a voice says, and they all look up to see Damian stride in still in full Robin-gear.

Tim scowls. “How did you get in here?”

“It was fairly simple,” the kid snorts. “A fish tank, Drake? Really?”

Tim looks like he wants to protest, but Jason chuckles. “It was kind of obvious, babybird.”

“You can barely take care of yourself, and you expect someone with a brain to believe you have the patience to care for fish?” the boy continues. “Exactly who do you think has been feeding them when you forget?”

Tim gapes. “You…break into my apartment…to feed my fish?”

Jason can’t help the loud guffaw that escapes at that, earning two equally unimpressed glares in return. He doesn’t care—that might be the funniest thing he’s heard in days.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Barbara says and wheels out of the room. “Try not to kill each other, boys. Alfred would be unhappy about it.”

“Luckily, we are standing in a well-stocked room with several methods for resuscitating a dead body,” Damian replies easily.

“Don’t you have school?” Tim grumbles.

“It’s Sunday, Drake.”

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“I have been sent to babysit you two and put Todd down with extreme prejudice should he try anything.

Which Tim gapes and, while Jason is…kind of relieved about.

“Aw, Dami, I knew you cared,” he teases.

“Don’t address me with that infantile drivel!”

Tim sighs.

“Just don’t set anything on fire while you’re here…”

⁂⁂⁂

I want to know what you think of my story! Leave kudos, a comment or if writing comments isn’t something you’re comfortable with, as many of these (or other emojis) as you want and let me know how you feel!

❤️️ = I love this story! 😳 = this was hot! 💐 = thank you for sharing this 🍵 = tea spilled 🍬 = so sweet and fluffy! 🚔 = you’re under arrest! the writing’s too good! 😲 = I NEED THE NEXT CHAPTER 😢 = you got me right in the feels 🤯mind blown 🤬god damn cliffhanger 😫 whyyyyyyy?!?!?

Next Chapter

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mittensmorgul · 4 years

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OMG. California scenes. I'm a SoCal girl and I just realized that this... is true. I think of myself as guarded, but wow. I think I've actually sat down and opened up to a relative stranger over lunch and then coffee. But I don't do it to seem centered! Anyway, gotta go back and look over my unpublished fics and make sure that I don't accidentally put too much of myself into them...

hi there! I swear I’m gonna write a bit about your message, but for reference, for others reading this, I think I need to provide a bit of context first. :) This is regarding this post about writing exposition:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/190756281185/cthonical-gallifrey-feels-fanfic-authors

Disclaimer time! I reblogged it specifically for that highlighted bit at the top:

And my specific intent in reblogging this was every complaint I ever read about why Dean and Cas don’t just ~talk to each other~ and deal with their issues. Every single “but they could’ve dealt with this years ago and been together!” I will counter “No, they really couldn’t! Because that’s not the story they’ve ever been telling!”

But, I’ve heard argued, if they really wanted to, they could change the story they’re telling. They could so easily make it obvious, explicit, textual between them. And of course they could! If they had zero authorial integrity, they could do whatever they wanted.

The way they have set up this story for the last decade and a half has established-- through the slow unfolding of more and more important facts, of gradually uncovering details, as above in purple, that become necessary for comprehension of the characters and their progression through this story-- that Dean’s relationship with Cas has been established in an ever tighter orbit around their mutual most deeply buried and tightly guarded secrets.

For reference, I’m not pulling this line of thinking out of nowhere. This is literally a rephrasing of something Davy Perez said in an interview when he first started with SPN back in s12. I never finished transcribing that podcast, but the relevant bit of the two hour conversation is included in this post:

https://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/post/160988290690/12-while-i-do-not-ask-this-to-be-negative-at

but the tl;dr of the handful of paragraphs of full context from that post:

Television is about a character that you become invested in, and that you fall in love with. That character grows in incremental ways. Not only do they grow in tiny little increments, and sometimes don’t even grow, they go backwards. You don’t close the loop. You keep the loop open, so that hopefully when you know that okay, this is our final season, this is our final run of episodes, that’s when you can find those landing points, and that’s when you can sort of say this is the end of this journey.

And Supernatural has been narratively riding around on that loop, on that spiral, for 15 years. And this is now the final season, and they’re gliding toward those landing points now. They’re homing in on those “painful truths the characters don’t want known,” those huge personal issues they’ve all been grinding down over the last 15 years and inching ever closer to unveiling. Because that’s how stories work when authors are writing to the narrative rather than writing instant gratification for a fickle audience. If one thing has been consistent over the years, it has been this progression of character. And Dabb era has chosen to lampshade all of this in text, through Chuck the Original Author.

And that is effectively the exact writing advice from this random post about how to write a believable and engaging story that has been all over my dash over the last few days. Like... the irony, right?

So now that I’ve explained my vagueing with this post, I’d be happy to address your actual question, from the rest of that page of writing advice. Thank you for bearing with me... :’D

I’d venture to say that the description of that sort of “identity info dump” that the article described as “California scenes,” where characters just spill their deepest secrets, isn’t always a negative thing. And it’s not a phenomenon exclusive to California, or borne of a need to prove someone’s authenticity, or angst cred, or whatever. Because it’s something we see happening on the internet, too.

And it’s absolutely something you can USE in your writing. I find it hilarious because it’s actually a major theme of my pinefest fic this year, which will be posting in April. Sorry I can’t point everyone to it yet, or really give too many spoilers... other than trying to explain this phenomenon.

Social media creates a weird sort of culture of identity. There was a post on tumblr years ago that explained it rather well. It said something to the effect of “in real life you meet people and slowly feel them out and reveal your deepest secrets only to a select few people after they already know your whole life story, but on the internet you’re just a screen name and an avatar and you might reveal your deepest secrets without any of the people who read them even knowing your NAME or what you look like or anything else about you.”

Because it’s not about complete open honesty, you know? It’s about understanding what carefully selected bits of information you present in a given circumstance. It’s social engineering.

Revealing your deepest desires or darkest secrets is an entirely different prospect when, say, sitting with a new acquaintance over a cup of coffee face to face or with a coworker in the break room than it is in an anonymous internet chat room. And it can be fascinating to understand what we’re willing to reveal about ourselves in these very different circumstances.

And once you sort through that sort of character analysis, you can write a truly believable and entirely in-character info dump like that without it feeling like an info dump. Because what the character chooses to reveal about themselves in a given situation can be as informative of the character and their relationship to the other characters as the details of what they say.

So, I guess the takeaway here is the reminder that you should still take all writing advice with a grain of salt, and remember that it’s not a blanket rule and all these “California scenes” should be excised in order for your story to be good, you know? If you know your characters well enough, they can be strategic moments of character insight, or even a complete misdirect. The key is to be aware you’re writing one, and then use it to illustrate a character’s weakness, or strength, or the dynamic of the relationship being exposed, rather than being a strict infodump of facts. Because infodumps are always boring if that’s actually the scene you’re writing and there isn’t a deeper layer of understanding going on or a deeper insight for the reader to gain.

Lol, this reminds me of another quote about writing that’s perfectly related:

“If the story you’re telling, is the story you’re telling, you’re in deep shit.” Robert McKee

If the only thing the reader takes from a scene is the words coming out of the characters’ mouths, you done screwed up... That’s why so many of these California scenes are just bad writing. They serve no other purpose than telling the reader a series of details about the characters’ backstories and fail to provide any deeper insight. The key to writing a GOOD scene is make it less a backstory catch-up bit of filler text, and more about what the characters aren’t revealing, or why they’re revealing any of this information in the first place. Because “to inform the reader of these facts” is never a good enough reason for a character to spill their guts like that.

#writing is hard #spn meta meta #lol because i can't control myself sometimes :'D #this is how stories work #Anonymous

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charity-angel · 5 years

Text

Common Language

Read on AO3

Karen wasn’t their secretary any more, but she still helped out booking their appointments, answering the phone, and so on when she wasn’t working on cases. Things were getting easier – their varying secrets were out in the open, and they were communicating more.

It took an embarrassing amount of time for Matt to realise that the emails Karen sent to both him and Foggy came through in Grade 2 Braille files. His translation program was good, but it wasn’t that good. Especially since it couldn’t account for typos, so he usually just read things as they a direct transcription in the standard 26-character alphabet. The fact it was in Grade 2, typos and all (bless Karen)… That… that implied that Karen was typing the emails in…

Surely not?

Especially since there was only one attachment on the email. It was… His fingers faltered as his display told him the file type – it was an .abt file – one that didn’t store standard text but was Braille-specific. He never really paid much attention to file types unless they didn’t open properly because someone had been foolish enough to send him a picture, so he hadn’t noticed before. And the email had been sent to both him and Foggy, which meant that Foggy was reading the same file as he was. Exactly the same, if visually rather than on a screen-reader.

What the hell?

He decided to test them. Not via the computer because there were too many ways to cheat with that, but he had other methods: he dusted off his mechanical notetaker and brought that into the office the next morning. The machine was clunky and loud, but it was a hell of a lot faster and easier to use than a stylus, and produced Braille faster and cheaper than the embosser they had saved up for months to equip the office with. And the next time he answered the phone, he typed out a note for Foggy and left it on his desk.

Foggy, Mrs Ellis called for you. Can you call her back? I do not know enough to talk to her.

5552594

When Foggy returned bearing coffee (a habit that at least stopped Karen from making it), he called his client back almost right away. He definitely hadn’t had enough time to look up a translation: he had read the note as quickly as Matt would (probably faster since Matt would have at least needed to find it on his desk first).

Once he was done on the phone, Foggy crossed his office and came to stand at Matt’s door. “Not seen that bad boy in a while,” he commented, gesturing to the notetaker. “Did you bring it just to see if I could read it?”

Matt averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah.”

“Took you long enough.”

“When did you…?”

“Dude, I lived with you for nearly five years – of course I learned. We got our bills in Braille.”

That was true – everything to do with each crummy flat they had rented together had always been in Braille, so that Matt knew what he was signing or paying. Foggy had enjoyed citing ADA to reticent landlords. It had just never occurred to Matt that the documents had not been provided in both print and Braille. Maybe some of them had been.

“And Karen?”

“We still get our bills in Braille,” Foggy pointed out. “Plus, she figured that it would be better if we could all read the same text, so she learned online. There’s even apps for it now. They’re good for sighted people, but you wouldn’t be able to use them. And then we downloaded some of the software you use so we can do stuff properly. I still kind of struggle typing like you do with the six keys, but I think I’m getting better. I make less mistakes, anyway.”

Matt could sympathise with that, although he had learned to type the other way around – he had learned with a Brailler first, then on a full keyboard. Going from one to the other was tricky and honestly he preferred not to. As Foggy had noted, he still used the keys on his decidedly more modern electronic notetaker rather than the laptop keyboard if he could get away with it.

“Karen’s getting herself certified, by the way, so she can bring some extra money in,” Foggy added. “There’s always people out there looking for a transcription service, and someone who can handle the legal jargon is going to be a blessing to the profession.”

That was true, to a certain extent, but it left Karen sounding more and more like an assistant again rather than her doing what she was good at.

“You’re over-thinking it,” Foggy told him. “There probably won’t be that much business from it – there’s actual companies out there who employ more than one person certified to transcribe. But, once word gets round that we can provide accessible services in-house…”

“Then we’ll be flooded with blind clients who can’t afford to pay us, rather than just the usual clients who can’t afford to pay us,” Matt noted wryly. “So are you getting certified in ASL too, so we can do the whole spectrum?”

He was being sarcastic, and he knew Foggy knew it. But Foggy was not going to be so easily deterred.

“Not a bad idea. Since you can’t do it. Can you?”

Matt snorted, amused even as he was touched that Foggy thought to check. “Even if that wouldn’t lead to people asking far too many questions, no, I can’t. I can sense broad movements, but there’s too much going on in smaller gestures that I can’t see properly. It’s like… I can hear that you’re fiddling with that pen in your hand, but I can’t see it.”

Foggy stopped fiddling with the pen. “Sorry.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “I didn’t… it’s fine, Foggy. It’s okay.”

“You know, I think I might have liked it better when I couldn’t see you do that,” Foggy retorted.

Matt grinned at him. “Yeah, but Karen complains if I hide behind the glasses when there’s no-one else around and, no offence, but I like the rewards I get for not pissing her off.”

Foggy threw up his hands. “Gross. I did not need to hear that. I… am totally over talking to you about your sex life.”

Matt sighed. “Can we go get drunk and just do it anyway, sometime? Because I miss that.”

“It’s Karen. It’s weird. And we didn’t talk – you used to show off and I lived vicariously through your showing off.”

That was, admittedly, true – to a point. Matt had never been above playing up his good looks and/or his disability to attract women, and Foggy had enjoyed being his wingman. Now neither of them had need of a wingman, since they were both blissfully ensnared by their respective girlfriends. Matt didn’t even go out looking for trouble that often any more. Hell’s Kitchen was finding a new equilibrium, and that involved the police a lot more than it involved Daredevil these days. He still showed his face every now and then, just to remind any would-be criminals that he was around, but on the whole he was enjoying an entirely different kind of life. With Karen, with Foggy and Marci, and even occasionally with a client who could afford to pay them.

“Can we just go out and get drunk, just the two of us?” Matt offered as a counterproposal. “We haven’t done that for ages.”

“Sounds good. I’ve got to get back to Mrs Ellis’ case, but we should do that. Tomorrow night?”

“Sure.”

Once Foggy had retreated to his office, Matt pulled the machine back over and tapped out a second message:

Karen, Foggy told me you’re learning. I know you probably didn’t say because you wanted me to figure it out for myself, but you have to remember I’m a blind idiot.

But I’m YOUR blind idiot, and this is something I can help with. I’m heading out but I’ll see you later. Come round and I’ll cook for you.

Love, Matt xx

#daredevil #matt murdock #foggy nelson #braille #because there is no way they never learned fight me #and yes the images have alt text #accessibility ftw

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paperclipninja · 5 years

Text

Younger post-ep ramble 6x02

You know how sometimes an episode of television feels like really good value? This week’s Younger episode, “Flushed with Love” felt like that to me. There was a LOT going on but it felt like it flowed really well, there was clear set up for the season and I gotta say, the first 7 mins of this ep gave me so many laughs, the writing was on point from the get go. The 23 min (though hello extra 2 mins, I see you) format is tricky at this stage of a series, especially one that has developed characters and relationships the way Younger has, because in order to keep the story moving forward attention needs to be paid to all those elements that have been established. So it will be interesting to see the pacing for the rest of the season, this ep was fast paced but didn’t feel too rushed, though I do hope that every now and then we get to sit in scenes of the upcoming episodes a little longer.

I love a morning in the loft with Liza and Maggie opening scene, there’s something so comforting about it and this ep served us up a good ‘un. Maggie paying out Liza’s outfit (she’s not wrong though), talking about her hook up with Clare’s mum as missionary work (first actual lol) and Maggie’s spidey senses tingling about Clare and her trustworthiness (though Liza is back in the Clare camp for now). It was brief, yet a nice reminder that these two roomies really have a relationship unlike any other on this show (I heart it very hard).

We waste no time getting to Aunt Liza’s first call of duty and that is, of course, baby goods shopping with Josh. This scene was utterly delightful and again, actual lols to be had. One of the many things I love about Younger is that it can venture into the silly or absurd to suit any given situation or character and even when it’s wrapped around something realistic and serious, it just works. This is one of my favourite scenes between Josh and Liza in recent memory, I felt like I saw what their friendship could/would look like (when someone finally puts this limping triangle out of its misery). I cackled at Josh’s, ‘I don’t understand why it comes out before it’s completely assembled’ and seeing him chug that gripe water after dry retching about the umbilical cord stump was pure slapsticky goodness. Of course it would not be a Liza/Josh scene without the reminder of Josh’s heart eyes for Liza, which featured in his lingering gaze as Liza advised against getting mobile as it gets in the way when you lean in for a kiss.

You know what I have heart eyes for? The 4 mins of this episode that starts at Lexington research centre and ends with Quinn asking Kelsey, ‘ARE YOU CRYING?’. The whole sequence is comedic gold. Seeing Diana, Kelsey and Liza sitting at the table together made my heart so happy, but not as happy as Diana taking Kelsey’s ‘since I’m the publisher’ from the start of the scene and using it to wish her luck telling Quinn her book sucks at the end. D. Trout is here to support you Big K but not put up with your ‘tude. This is also the first scene where we begin to see the experience vs. youth idea surface, as Diana tells Kelsey and Liza that it’s nice they think they have a choice about debuting with Quinn’s book. While Kelsey’s inexperience is easy enough to spot, Liza’s ‘I think this is so smart’ comment, just as the focus group feedback starts to roll, is the first reminder that Liza may be a fine editor with great ideas and her life experience sets her in good stead a lot of the time, but she is pretty much as green as they come in the business world. The Claw reader response reel, sweet lawd, I have watched this so many times and LAUGHED (yes, capital letters laughed) because the selection of responses, working their way to Suzzane’s shingles flaring up and Vicky begging to unread the book, are just too funny for words (”strong reactions”).

Thankfully we don’t have to wait long for Kelsey to deliver the news to Quinn because the nightmare continues over lunch aka. hilarity ensues. In case we needed some more convincing that Quinn does what Quinn wants, she immediately railroads the conversation by giving Kelsey and Liza gold business cards holders (that ‘poor Charles’ comment re: a quick exit, this woman just cannot help herself, Claw could not be a more apropos book title *meow*). Seeing Kelsey trying to find her feet in her new role is really interesting in this ep and the contrast between the first meeting and the later one when she makes Quinn sign a napkin contract to leave if the book bombs (boss move on Kelsey’s part, I rate that whole exchange a lot higher than Maggie’s current Uber rating...you’re welcome), demonstrates that Kelsey has the capacity to be a great publisher, but obvs there will be loads of DRAH-MAH to get there this season. But I tell you, if that drama includes being forced to chant in a restaurant full of strangers with a billionaire who may or may not have peaked in high school (Liza’s ‘what is happening’, the birth of ‘Big K’, Quinn sort of shrieking ‘are you crying?’, I just cannot with it all) then I am HERE FOR IT. I love the whole ridiculous scenario so much and once again, it’s flat out absurd but it somehow works and I’m 100% looking forward to Quinn’s next hit, coming this season: Fifty Shades of Cray.

Kelsey’s insecurity kicks into overdrive straight after lunch and this is undoubtedly going to be a recurring theme, as evidenced in the later exchange between Kelsey and Liza when Liza passes on the advice Charles offered in relation to publishing Claw as the first Millennial title under the new regime. Kelsey chastising Liza for discussing the book with Charles was the first sign that the pressure is getting to her and the immediate accusation that Liza was running her ideas past Charles (as opposed to just talking about her day, you know, as you do with someone you’re in a relationship with) mirrored Kelsey’s reaction to finding out Liza and Charles were together in season 5, when she leapt to the conclusion that Liza was trying to undermine her decision not to publish the Krieger book.

Kelsey assuming the worst of Liza is something I really struggle with, especially considering Liza has proven time and time again that she has Kelsey’s back. I am still scratching my head at how the whole exchange resulted in Liza feeling the need to give a peace offering to Kelsey at the gender reveal party later, but I will park that for now. Ultimately, I felt sorry for Kelsey as we saw her presume that Liza thinks she’s out of her depth and misconstrue Liza saying she wasn’t strong enough with Quinn regarding the edits to mean that Liza doesn’t think Kelsey is strong enough herself. There has to be a point when Kelsey realises that Liza and co. all want her to succeed and turns to them for the support each can offer (at least I hope there comes a point) so it will certainly be interesting to see that play out.

Even at the fancy clothes event (this is what I have been referring to it as since seeing everyone dressed up in promos etc so I’ll stick with it) Kelsey is feeling like she does not belong (can we just talk about Kelsey’s portrait wedged in between all the unremarkable white-haired white men on the event poster? I want to print that whole display as postcards to send to people for no reason). Zane’s, ‘You’re standing in front of a bar, you’ve never belonged anywhere more in your life’, was both accurate and also a sweet attempt to reassure Kelsey. I’m finding Kelsey’s willingness to show vulnerability to Zane this season quite a contrast to their previous dynamic; last episode she was talking about finding her job harder than expected and this week, she reveals her struggle with impostor syndrome. I’m neither offended or excited by the Zelsey situation so that will be what it is and for those who are into it, I feel like there might be some great moments coming up in that relationship now that they appear to be on again *shrug emoji* Are they? Not sure. I am curious to see whether their relationship allows Kelsey to continue to open up more and give the audience a glimpse into her struggles and fears and I feel like I say this a lot, but I would like to get to continue to get to know Zane.

It would be remiss of me not to acknowledge that my excitement for Liza and Charles being dressed up and out together as an actual couple was through the roof going into this episode. Their entrance, with Charles’ smitten gaze firmly on Liza, followed quickly by the effortless literary exchange that reveals Liza is feeling a little out of her depth at such an event herself = le sigh. What I did not expect though was a) how much I was going love Lauren in this scene, I mean I really do love every time she is on my screen, but her conversation with Diana and Enzo, I could just transcribe it word for word (or you should just watch it again) because the whole thing, including Enzo’s delight and Diana’s horror (just a modern-day Juliet but with poop in her ear), was glorious; and b) Charles telling Liza that she’s taking bullets meant for him and he needs to fix it and the entire apology to Diana that followed. Zane and Charles’ little nods and Charles’ obvious diversion from Liza asking what that was about is duly noted, clearly the mystery around the newest Millennial/40-something team abounds and will no doubt come to a head soon.

So it may have been a convenient distraction, but Charles cutting through the awkwardness to tell Diana they both know he owes her an apology, only for her to lay it all out as only Diana could, encapsulated the dynamic we’ve seen for the past five season between these two characters perfectly. Even though it’s only been two episodes, I miss their incidental interactions in the office, even if they’re often only fleeting. Obviously I blacked out momentarily when Charles told Diana that he can’t apologise for falling in love with Liza, but I thankfully regained consciousness in time to hear Diana twist Charles’ words and be happy to leave it as her hearing that she would be running Millennial had it been up to Charles.

I love that Liza continues to confront Charles and challenge him if she disagrees with him and hearing that Charles’ belief in Kelsey is genuine was lovely and I am so pleased that he has been confirmed as an ally and backer of hers. The reality is, we knew that Empirical was in financial trouble last season, Charles was open about that, but his advice around how to handle Quinn’s book was sound, I love that he also acknowledged that maybe Kelsey’s plan will work and I feel like the ‘experience means something’ idea may resurface in a surprising way down the track. Liza’s cogs were clearly turning and the challenge for her is going to be whether she is strong enough to call Kelsey out or stand up to her at times.

I am glad to see Charles respect that Liza is in a difficult position and his understanding when she asked that they not discuss Millennial was admirable. I adore how dry Charles is when he and Liza are alone, his humour in the way he talks about branching out to other cuisines and of course, the fabulous dead pan agreement that he will not tell Liza about the movie other than a few tidbits and ‘that’s all you get’ *swoon*. Cue Liza once again being unabashedly suggestive and helping herself to dessert. I really appreciate that Younger shows the way characters are different in these private romantic relationships, it’s realistic and reflects the way we show different sides of ourselves when we’re with someone we love and are comfortable with. Of course Liza’s request to keep work talk out of the relationship will no doubt prove problematic as Charles and Zane’s machinations unfold, however it also means that if Charles is not forthcoming in revealing their plans, he may arguably be respecting her wishes. I still hold out hope that whatever drama that needs to play out does so, but that Kelsey, Liza, Charles and Zane ultimately team up again to work together, along with Diana and Lauren. I mean, talk about the A team.

Speaking of A teams, Diana and Enzo (#Dianzo I think we settled on??). Never have I shushed at a character quite like I did Diana as she careened towards the point of no return during her post-event walk with Enzo. It was like watching some kind of horrifying game of insult Jenga, where instead of wooden pieces, every time Diana kept trying to clarify that actually, she just meant she thought she’d be with someone cultured, sophisticated etc, we could see the pieces of Enzo’s heart being slowly extracted before the whole thing broke completely (along with mine). I actually yelled ‘stop talking’ at one point and it was a reminder that Diana’s tendency to be self absorbed and inconsiderate is still well and truly in tact. It did allow for yet another splendid Lauren/Diana interaction the next morning at work, Lauren’s sympathy evident as she referred to Diana by her actual name instead of Diva, and I just love how obsessed Lauren is with Diana. I need to see more of them together and yes please out at a bar.

Of course the real pay off and Dianzo resolution came towards the end of the episode when we discovered that Diana had written and published their love story herself. Side note: I want Miriam Shor to narrate all my books. Diana and Enzo’s simple yet emotional reunion was so moving, in part because of the accompanying narration but also because Diana’s walls are finally down with Enzo, she’s allowing herself to be in love with him because that’s what she wants and needs. I just love the character development of Diana over the series and I cannot wait to see the Diana and Enzo story unfold over the rest of the season.

The fastest moving part of this episode was undoubtedly the gender reveal to birth of baby which occurred in the space of about four minutes. When Liza arrived at the party I really got the impression that as she looked over at Josh and Clare, she was simply happy for them. And poor Liza being tasked with holding the balloon for the big reveal only to let it go, that whole situation was so relatable and would definitely be me if I was given that responsibility. Clare did a fantastic job of moving from first contraction to crowning baby in the back of an Uber in mere minutes. I cannot even tell you how ecstatic I am that Maggie was the character put into the back of that car, that scene was so bonkers but the dialogue, from Maggie asking why she was in the splash zone and ‘it’s coming for me’ and telling Josh the breathing’s not working, to Clare’s ‘you and I are the only two women who’ve been inside my mother, we’re bonded’ and of course ‘no baby in my Uber!’, it has to have been one of the most hectic moments ever on this show but jeez was it funny.

The entire outro of this episode, with Diana’s narration tying together all the fragments, was sublime and obviously credit to Don Roos for the stellar writing. I have said it before, but having a young guy so openly yearn to be a father is really refreshing and seeing Josh with his baby was beautiful. This character just desperately wants to love and be loved and I really believe that his daughter will give that to him in a way he deserves. For Liza, seeing Josh with the baby would undoubtedly dredge up all kinds of feelings. I am not naive enough to believe that the writers won’t continue to stoke the ‘Team’ debate, however for now I am going to put my faith in the fact that actually, the story that’s playing out is one that is real and multifaceted. To see an ex, whom you loved, with a baby that you were very clear you did not want, I don’t doubt that there would be a moment of, ‘what would my life have looked like if that had been me?’. It doesn’t mean Liza wants that now, but I do believe that coupled with the words Diana is reading, it is a time of letting go and reflection for Liza.

When Liza returns to the brownstone (ok, two things quickly, umm how does she get in to the house? I would NOT put it past C. Brooks to have given her a key already but I need confirmation asap. Also, turns out casual Charles is a barefoot guy, which I am struggling with a little because it is Winter and he is sitting reading, surely there’d at least be socks but apparently not), I will admit that I found the exchange between her and Charles a little odd, I can’t really explain why. I really liked Charles’ reaction to the news of a baby girl, his understanding of what it’s like to become a parent felt really evident in his response. I could (most likely am) be completely over-thinking it, but I wonder if Charles asking Liza if she’s happy is because he knows this would be hard for Liza?

I feel like the fact she needs a hug is a dead give away that she’s needing some TLC and time to process. I truly love a hug, I find them to be more intimate sometimes than a kiss, like a real proper hug and I feel like we don’t get many on TV and the way Liza pulls Charles to her and he holds her does things to my heart. The look on Liza’s face at the end, it is obviously to serve the purpose of stirring up the Josh/Charles debate but you know what? I just want to engage in the narrative as it is written and I do believe that Liza is happy with Charles and is grieving the ‘what could have been’ with Josh in that moment and to me, that’s ok. It will be how these characters and the story move forward from this point that I’m really keen to see.

All in all, I really enjoyed episode 2, it was an episode of extremes in many ways because the funny was oh so funny and the emotional really up and got me at the end there.

Be sure to have your fire blankets ready for next week’s ep, if you’ve seen the sneak peek you know why and if you haven’t just trust me, it will be necessary.

#youngertv #younger tv #ramble #6x02 #liza miller #charles brooks #kelsey peters #diana trout #maggie amato #josh #zane anders #liza x charles #diana x enzo #team charles #dianzo #lauren heller #review #younger season 6

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subtlerain · 6 years

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Chrysalis - Part I

→ Vampire!Taehyung x reader

I ♥ II ♥ III ♥ IV ♥ V ♥ VI ♥

Synopsis: Life has never been easy for you, and desperate times calls for desperate measures. You’re willing to do anything to save the life of your dying sister, so you make a deal with the devil himself, your new task to be a live-in companion for Kim Taehyung, the reclusive vampire who despises your world and has demons of his own. Is this vampire really as heartless and loveless as he appears, or will his life be changed by a human girl willing to show him the beautiful things in life?

Genres: Romance, angst, fluff & lots of feelings.

Warnings: Mentions of blood, slight gore, some depressing themes & slight sadism

A/N: Here it is guys! I have been working on this new series for a while after so many of you loved Honey, so I am finally posting the first chapter! I have a lot planned for this series, so buckle up and prepare yourself for some Vampire!Taehyung. Please show your support and enjoy Part I!

Check my faq for questions around my posting schedule!

Tagged: let me know if you’d like to be tagged when I update so you don’t miss the next chapter!

Companion.

Companion was the key word transcribed on the email you had received, a little red ‘1’ popping into your inbox at 10:02 pm on a lonely Sunday night.

Your eyebrows had risen high on your forehead at the sight of the congratulatory email, eyes bulging at the bright screen of your laptop as you sat in the leftmost corner of your bed, your body huddled among blankets and pillows.

It had been only the day previous that you once again found yourself searching frantically for anything, anything that could earn more than what you made at the tiny little cafe on 4th street, anything that you help lessen the stress that kept you up at night.

This peculiar situation had all started when you found the posting at the very bottom of an ‘odd jobs’ forum, one that had been cast to the very depths of the already sketchy and utterly concerning requests that made your skin crawl.

It seemed normal by the heading, almost like a caregiver, friend, cleaning-lady type person, but when you opened it up, you realized why it was at the very bottom of the forum, under ‘medical experiment volunteer’ for instance. The word that would’ve turned even the most daring away, only a single word that might as well have been typed in bold, red ink.

Vampire.

But despite the uneasy feeling that crawled up your back that you assumed was a normal, human, reaction, you continued to read, noticing with interest that the request was not written by the blood-being who needed the companionship, but was rather written on behalf of him by his father.

The reason you had clicked on the apply button and attached a neat email with a resume which you wondered would even have any use, was the sentence at the bottom of the page that made your middle swell with hope.

Upon acceptance, the chosen companion will be granted any request as payment.

You clutched the acceptance email in your hands—you had printed it off just in case—and folded it neatly. You had already memorized it contents, already come to terms with what the acceptance meant, and the conditions that were contained within the email thread between you and the elder vampire.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, as the saying went.

Quite desperate actually, and quite cliché. But sometimes life handed you horrible things on rusty platters, and you had to do your best to not let that poison settle deep inside of you. Sacrifices had to be made, and you had to be okay.

Plus, the misery that seemed to follow you through you life had only made you stronger, and you much too stubborn to just give up.

There were lots of trees outside the taxi window, and you wondered how far in the countryside you really were. All you knew is that you seemed to be going up, and up meant hills and mountains.

A nice view was a hopeful promise that you let settle in the back of your mind.

“A vacation, Miss?”

You looked at the taxi driver through the rear view mirror and smiled.

“Some could call it that…” You looked back outside to the dark green conifers and hummed, “A long stay in an unfamiliar place, rather.”

He nodded in understanding, but you knew he didn’t understand.

It was laughable how much he didn’t understand, but you weren’t about to spill your story onto the middle-aged driver, at risk that he may three-point-turn and speed back down the long winding hill in fear of your safety, and his.

You played with the hem of your dress, fingering the light blue material. You weren’t sure what to wear for your first meeting, in fact, you weren’t sure what to even pack.

“You will stay for as long as he needs you, or whenever he meets my expectations. All expenses will be paid to meet your needs, along with your request.”

All expenses paid seemed like some kind of resort, but you felt no need to suddenly live lavishly, even in the estate you were being sent to live in.

You were simple and plain, owning a few nice pieces that you had worn to countless job interviews, paired with old silver jewelry from your mother.

Your eyes swept back outside to the endless line of trees and you rested your head against the window.You wondered what kinds of things would await you at the Kim Mansion.

You closed your eyes.

Well of course, other than the young, lonesome vampire.

***

The taxi stopped at 7:32 pm, and you opened your eyes at the lack of motion, blinking sleep from your eyes to see the driver once again looking at you through the rearview mirror expectantly.

Your eyes flicked to the metre.

Expensive.

You were very, very far away from your grungy apartment.

You blinked outside the window for a second, brows furrowing. Large, thick trees only looked back at you, “Are you sure this—“

“There’s a number right there. One-oh-three Fern Ridge.” The taxi driver explained, and you could see the weariness from the long drive in his own features.

“Need help with your bags?”

You shook your head no before sliding him a few crumpled bills and wishing him a good evening as you clicked open the door.

And then he drove away, and you were left in front of a row of trees with your leather backpack slung over your shoulder, and your heavy case in your hand.

“One-oh-three Fern Ridge.” You spoke aloud to the trees.

The sun was starting to dip below the horizon, casting a glossy sheen on you, but the trees remained dark and sullen.

Nodding your head in an attempt at confidence, you took a step forward, eyes peering through the trees at a very over-grown gate.

You felt a pang of annoyance. Surely he would’ve had some sense to make sure you had a clear path to get to his home before your arrival.

But then again, it was his father who made the request, not him.

You proceeded through the walkway of trees to the gate, and after much pushing on the thick, black bars, it opened with a rusty squeak, and you jumped as a flock of birds leapt from their resting place in the trees at the disruptive noise.

You started through the second layer of trees that met you on the other side, and you were sure you smelled of pine and sap from your efforts to somehow escape the foliage that was much too thick for any garden.

And then you broke through, and you halted your movements at the sheer hugeness of the property you found yourself on.

The tree line had abruptly ended, but swept a large rectangle around the grounds in a protective hedge.

And in the centre was the largest house—if you could even call it that—that you had ever seen. It was victorian—as you would expect from a hundred-and-something year old vampire—with over hanging roofs and dark exterior, large windows that seemed to do nothing to bring the last beams of descending sunlight light into the home.

“You will be his companion. He’s lazy and young, and has no idea how to care for himself, let alone become the heir of my company. He’s been living alone in isolation for far too long, wallowing in his own self-pity and hatred. But his time is running out. Too much solidarity will kill a vampire you know, and we wouldn’t want that to happen.”

His father’s words echoed in your head, reminding you of your purpose once you set foot on the property.

You walked forwards, shoes tapping on the cracked cobblestone as you weaved through over-grown bushes and hedges, wilted flowers and stone statues with thick green moss and cracks chiseled deep into them.

You bristled because even the door was grand and intimidating, and you hesitated before reaching for the large brass knocker and dropping it to the faded door in two simple knocks.

Upon closer inspection, most of the metal that decorated the exterior of the estate was rusty and old, and you wondered when the last time was that someone entered the house.

Or exited.

You waited a moment, adjusting your knapsack on your shoulders.

No response.

Only the soft evening breeze and dipping sun reminded you that you were still on planet earth, not some dark, quiet world full of sticky green moss and rusted metal on the top of some goddamn mountain somewhere.

You were at a loss of what to do for a moment, wondering if turning and running away would be a better option, until a mix of determination and the knowledge of the contract you had signed electronically made you stay planted firmly in your spot on the front porch.

You were living here now, and you had an email to prove it. You had a new task at hand.

Breathing out you pushed open the door easily, and it creaked much like the gate, except it echoed in the empty foyer.

The first smell was dust, musky and thick, and the second was copper. It was to be expected, you thought grimly.

“Hello?” You ventured, still standing on the front step. Your voice was hoarse and quiet, so you cleared your throat and started again, taking one step inside.

You closed the door behind you softly, and the room was coated in darkness except for a candle lit chandelier that was sparkling in the dimness of the room.

“Hello? Mr. Kim?”

You sighed and closed your eyes for a moment, nearly laughing at how absurd the situation was. It was out of desperation that you were here, it was out of hopelessness and sacrifice that you were standing alone in a mansion on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Your only task now was to be a companion to a lonesome vampire, who hadn’t yet made an appearance in his own home.

The folly of the circumstances didn’t dissuade you, and you walked out of the foyer and onto the next room, knuckles white from gripping the straps of your bag so tightly.

It was colder, somehow, despite the fact that you had only moved a few feet, and you instantly felt uneasy again. Now it was a more intense feeling, a more real feeling that there was something seriously wrong, something unearthly, preternatural even.

It was utterly frightening, and you felt like a child again, scared there was a monster in your closet.

And then a shiver ascended from your toes and up your spine and to the tips of your fingers as a low, gravelly voice cracked the brisk air around you.

“Ah, I thought I smelled human girl.”

You yelped, and dropped your case from your hand, bringing your arms up in some defensive position as you whipped your head around to find the source of the voice.

Except, the presence seemed to be all around you. On your right and left and above your head and below your feet. It was harsh and cold, and you could feel it right in your centre, a deep, low, blackness that was eating you from the inside out.

You were so cold, and all of your hair was standing on end, your natural fight or flight instincts kicking in.

And then the feeling subsided slightly, and you let out a shaky breath to remind yourself that in fact, you were still alive, despite feeling as if you had just made contact with death itself.

When you had regained some sense of, yes, I’m alive and haven’t been eaten, you noticed a presence, a more physical presence, and your eyes landed a deep red velvet couch on the right side of the room.

Except it wasn’t the couch that made you suck in a breath, it was the deep, lifeless eyes that were looking at you as if you were a being less significant than an ant. You felt more frightened than ever.

Mr. Kim.

Suddenly you could breathe again, and you wondered what kind of spell he had put on you to make your insides feel so empty and cold, what kind of darkness he held inside to nearly take over your entire body.

How simply inviting.

He turned his head away from you for a moment, and you stared openly.

You had never seen a vampire before, nor been this close to one in person, as far as you knew. You knew they existed, everyone did in fact. Humans and vampires coexisted, and most blood-beings adapted to the human world, the killing sprees that happened in the deep past scarce as they integrated with humans.

They integrated so well it nearly impossible to tell who was a vampire in a room and who was not.

But, some vampires had rejected human society and had chosen to live by themselves, far away.

Mr Kim, evidently, was one of those lonesome creatures.

It was true when they said vampires possessed a special kind of beauty. Elegant and smooth was the way they moved, from how they sat and walked and talked. They had the ability to speak softly yet harshly, words biting but ever so intriguing.

They could whisper music in your ears, and stab a dagger through your heart at the same time.

The vampire before you had turned away, as if letting you stare at him for a moment, and you took the opportunity to gaze over each feature.

You were going to be living with this creature, after all.

He was long limbed, dressed in a simple dark dress-coat, the colour something like a deep violet. Underneath could be rather ordinary on a human man—slacks and a blouse—but on him it was alluring, sensual, the way he stretched out on the couch was somehow provocative but natural, as if that was how he always simply laid on a couch.

His skin was smooth and milky, as you would expect, not a mark or freckle along the shape of his exposed neck or clavicle. He was an unmarked blank canvas without a beating heart or a trace of blood in his veins.

Eyes gliding to his face, you were met with a sharp, straight jawline cut across his profile, and the almost soft bump of his nose was an unexpected contrast to the sharp lines of his profile.

His eyes were closed, but you remembered the harshness of them, dark as night and shaped like perfect almonds, hidden behind a set of long, charcoal lashes. His hair was dark and wavy, curling around his ears and nape, and brushing his forehead in layers of silky chocolate and midnight.

Last were his lips, full and crimson, so red in fact, that you thought for a moment he was wearing lipstick.

You realized quickly enough that they were stained, tainted with a dark red blood.

It was almost as if he knew you were done looking, and his eyes opened, slowly.

“Now that you’re done ogling, I’m curious as to why you’re in my house.” He said simply, voice velvety.

You swallowed, disregarding his comment despite the flush rising underneath your collar. “Y-your father sent me, upon the request for a companion on your behalf.”

His lips curled into a smirk, but utter surprise was laced in his features, “You?”

You breathed out, and kept your eyes trained on him, “I-I’m sorry if I’m not what you expected.”

Then suddenly, his face was turned to yours, and he propped himself up on his arm, “I do not care who he sent. I’m just appalled that he has gotten so desperate that he actually made the request.” He sighed, eyes sparkling, “The bastard practically begged me to agree to whatever useless scheme he came up with.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but you didn’t know how to respond. His hard gaze was very uncomfortable. It was as if he was dissecting every piece of you with just his eyes, stripping away your clothes and skin and bone until there was nothing left.

He sat up fully, and his eyes darkened, casting another wave of coldness through your body.

“But now I’m curious about you, my dear. I didn’t think anyone would actually be stupid enough to apply for this job.” He tilted his head, dark locks brushing over his sharp eyebrows, “What are you getting in return for staying here with me?” He stood up, and you fought the urge to run away, to get the hell out of this place and as far away from this man as possible.

But it seemed your feet were glued to the floor, anyway.

He started to walk towards you, slinking along the wooden floor, eyes trained on your form, “Why would a weak little girl like you agree to stay in an old, creepy mansion with a vampire?”

You were frozen, and you were sure he could see the way your hands were trembling.

He stopped just a few feet away, “The fact that you haven’t run screaming yet is intriguing.” His eyes burned into yours, “So I wonder, how desperate are you?”

You breathed out, “I-I’m—“

He narrowed his eyes, “Don’t tell me you’re some criminal on the run searching for refuge. You look much too innocent for that, my dear.”

You bristled.

His voice dropped, “Tell me. Tell me what you are getting in return to stay with me.”

You closed your eyes, “Medical care for my sister.”

The vampire did not expect that. No, he did not expect that at all.

His lips moved into a smirk, “A little sister I bet, hm? A sweet little girl whose life is being taken much too early, a life you wish to save, so, so desperately.”

You looked down at the ground. Anger bubbling in you at his mocking tone, which had poison twisted in it, “She’s sick, and her treatment is very expensive. I will do whatever it takes to save her.”

He laughed, but it was nothing but unkind, “How valiant of you! I’m sure she’s so excited that you’ve decided to come here and stay with me.”

You started to panic, “S-she doesn’t know that I’m here.”

The vampire smiled, eyes bright in the most horrifying way. “Oh? Oh no.” He walked around you in slow, measured steps, “I’m guessing my father made staying with me sound pretty easy, hm? Companion. That word makes me sick. The human world has made my father weaker.”

You breathed out, gathering the little courage you had left, “He’s worried about your isolation from the world. He says you resent him, he just wants to prepare you for—”

Suddenly he laughed, almost manically, clutching his chest, “You dumb, stupid girl.” He glanced back at you, eyes tinged red, “My father doesn’t care about me, he never has, and never will. I’ll be the heir whether I’m prepared or not.” He clucked his tongue, “And the idea of getting some human girl to magically pull me into the world I despise is laughable.”

He moved closer, leaning forwards so his face met yours, “You’ve made a mistake coming here, even if he does give you medicine for your sister. You’re about as useless to me as a dull knife, and as breakable as glass.” Your breath hitched as he moved closer, closer, lips pressed to your ear.

“You’ve sold your soul to me and become nothing but a bag of blood.”

And with that, he turned away and slinked into his house, leaving you alone.

And just like that, doubt began to pool in your skull, and you felt numb once again. So you sank to the floor and cried silently, desperately, his words echoing again and again in your head.

Let me know if you’d like to be added to my tagged list so you don’t miss the next chapter! ♥

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sceptilemasterr · 5 years

Text

Endless Summer: The (un)Official Screenplay - “End Credits”

Yes, you read that right: this movie script does include an “End Credits” of sorts! Though since there are very few people who actually worked on this script (aka: just me), I’m also going to be including my final thoughts on how the script turned out, where the story’s going from here, what the hell is up with that “CIU Project” tag I keep adding to these, and... in true MCU-style fashion, even an end-credits scene! Or two?

Masterlist: Link

CREDITS:

Written by: SceptileMasterr (obviously)

Based On: Endless Summer, Book 1 by Pixelberry Studios (with some additional elements taken from Hero, Vol 1)

Copyright Info: All names, places, and concepts from Endless Summer and Hero are copyright Pixelberry Studios. The only things I own here are Ian and Alyssa, my various Vaanti OCs, as well as the majority of the Vaanti language except the words taken from canon (conlangs are hard!)

Inspirations:

The MC Twins: @blightarts (go read his Pokemon Summer Version crossover fic where I got that idea from, btw, it’s awesome)

Movie Concept in General: @mysteli and her amazing ES Fan Trailers (both of them!)

Estela and Ian’s First Kiss: Borrowed from another one of my fics, “Sunset”

Screenwriting Software: Final Draft 11

Special Thanks:

@brightpinkpeppercorn: My fandom twin and “beta reader” of sorts; thanks for all the great and fun discussions we had about the twins, their loves, the story, and concepts and future plans; they’ve been great! I love and appreciate your feedback!

@mysteli: You’re the entire reason I started this project! Ever since your first ES trailer I have envisioned what an ES movie would be like. And then my imagination spiraled out of control from there... Appreciate your feedback as well!

@edgydepressedchoicesthot: A fellow Estela stan! I met you even before I had a Tumblr, back on AO3. I read and fell in love with your ES rewrite series there... then school blocked AO3 (grr) but I eventually caught up! I hope you enjoyed this rewrite as much as I liked yours!

@bbaba-yagaa: A more recent fandom friend, but I’m so glad I met you and your blog! I adore your Estela fics so much!

@endlesshero1122: I’m still amazed at how we had such similar ideas with our respective ES and Hero rewrites. Dual MCs and everything, with one of them even being named Alyssa, what are the odds?! Glad you’ve enjoyed this script!

...And of course, everyone not on the tag list who’ve liked, read, and/or commented on this script! Every time I get a new like or comment, it makes me so happy to know that I made someone’s day a little better with this screenplay-rewrite of a visual novel we all know and love. I love writing; I really have a passion for it, and I hope I can continue entertaining people with my future stories to come!

And SPEAKING of future stories...

FADE IN:

INT. THE CELESTIAL LOBBY - DAY

Estela is standing at the concierge desk, gazing at several sheets of paper stacked atop it. The elevator doors open, and Ian emerges, the folders he’d found previously now clutched in his hands. She turns at his approach.

ESTELA: Ian! There you are! Listen, you should see this-

IAN: Look, I... I’ve got something I need to show you. To show everyone, really. Where are they?

ESTELA: I think most of them are still sleeping. Can’t say I blame them, after last... night? Morning? Day? Anyway, look.

Ian crosses over to the desk and looks at the papers. On them, in a messy scrawl, are written several seemingly non-sequitur messages. Ian picks one up and reads it, confused.

IAN: “The Hostiles know.” “McKenzie equals Lupus.” “The STARS are key!!” “He’s here he’s here he’s here he’s here...”

He looks up at Estela.

IAN: What is this? Looks like nonsense.

ESTELA: I’m not sure. But more to the point, this wasn’t here before we “time traveled.” Someone was here during the 204 days we skipped. Is this Diego’s handwriting?

IAN: Nah. I’d know his scribbles anywhere. Doubt it’s the Hostiles, either, since they don’t speak English.

ESTELA: So that means... what?

Before Ian can respond, the elevators open again, and Alyssa and Jake emerge. They stop short when they see the folders in Ian’s hand.

ALYSSA: Wait, are those-?

JAKE (simultaneously): You found some too?!

Estela and Ian turn to face them. Ian shrugs and holds up the folders.

IAN: I... I didn’t mean to keep these from you guys, I just didn’t really get the chance-

He stops when he realizes what Alyssa and Jake had said.

IAN: Wait... “found some too?” You both-

Alyssa shrugs sheepishly.

ALYSSA: At that emergency shelter. One of ‘em was about you, Estela.

ESTELA: Me?

IAN: You should’ve shown her!

ESTELA: To be fair, we all had our reasons for not trusting one another, especially at first.

She pulls out her own set of folders. The top one is Jake’s, and she hands it to him.

ESTELA: This is yours, I believe.

JAKE: Goddamn...

He flips through it, saying nothing, but his eyes go wide in surprise.

JAKE: Hang on. Be right back.

He sprints out of the lobby, toward the entrance to the basement. Alyssa hangs her head and sighs.

ALYSSA: Sorry, Estela. Really. We’re long past the point where we should’ve stopped keeping secrets from each other-

ESTELA: It’s fine. Apparently we all did the same thing.

IAN: I was hoping to find everyone so I could show them all at once. I’ve got Craig’s, Zahra’s, and Quinn’s.

ALYSSA: But how do they know this much stuff about us? Birthdates, locations, history... except yours, Estela; a lot of it’s blacked out for some reason.

She hands the folder to Estela, who reads through it.

ESTELA: What is here is worryingly accurate. How could Rourke possibly know all of this? Down to the last detail?!

Alyssa shivers involuntarily.

ALYSSA: I dunno, but it’s freaking me out-

Jake bounds back up the stairs, a pair of folders clutched in his hands.

JAKE: Found these right before all that Aleister business started, and then I forgot all about it, given... uh, what happened that night.

He looks awkwardly at Ian. Alyssa coughs and glares at Jake.

IAN: What happened that night?

ALYSSA: None of your business! Actually, hang on: what were you two doing that night? I seem to remember you rushing in together-

IAN: “None of your business!”

ALYSSA: I really should’ve seen that coming.

JAKE: None of that matters right now. You two are gonna wanna see these.

He passes the twins’ folders to each of them. They stand side by side as they open the folders, staring openmouthed at the “Birth” sections.

IAN: “December 31, 1995 - 11:59 PM” ... “Location... La Huerta?!”

ALYSSA: Mine says “January 1, 1996 - 12:00 AM.” Also La Huerta.

JAKE: There’s no way in hell you two were born here. You’d have known that, right?

Alyssa and Ian shake their heads.

ALYSSA: Jake... we were adopted together when we were babies. We never knew our birth parents or anything.

IAN: Our birth certificates said “January 1st, ‘96,” so that’s just when we celebrated, but... Alyssa...

ALYSSA: If Jake and Estela’s birthday info is all true, and if the others’ are true as well, then...

IAN: ...We were born here. On La Huerta.

ALYSSA: Ian... who are we?!

FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED IN... ENDLESS WINTER

FINAL THOUGHTS AND FUTURE PLANS:

How do you actually write one of these things? Well, I start out by playing through the canon chapter(s) that a given scene is based on and transcribing the script into Word for reference. The canon ES chapters are L-O-N-G, by the way. Then, I decide what to keep, what to alter, what to get rid of, and which lines to include unchanged, and then I write the actual script! After that, I run through it once to edit, then I’ll read the lines aloud and make more changes to make them sound natural. Post it to Tumblr, fix the formatting (and edit once again), then voila! A scene is born!

What was up with the changes? You skipped a ton of scenes! I thought the script turned out well, and (based on people’s reactions and comments) reasonably easy to follow even with all the changes. Most of the changes were made with the aim of streamlining and shortening the story; even with all the scenes cut from canon, the script still ended up being an estimated 3 hours long! Yikes! The other major changes were mostly made with the aim of setting up threads for weaving a greater story, which leads us to...

What the hell is “CIU Project?” Okay, okay, if anyone’s looked in the tags, you’ve probably noticed the recurring tag “ciu project” as well as tagging my Vaanti OC names with (CIU) at the end of it. CIU stands for “Choices Interconnected Universe” and is what I’m calling any- and everything that takes place in the same universe as this ES rewrite. There will be a more detailed post about the CIU and a general idea of my plans for it later on, but I wanted to wait to announce it until this first script was finished!

Have you written anything else in your CIU universe? “Choices Interconnected Universe Universe?” Okay, but seriously, this is the first official, “canon” work set in the CIU. I have written my Vaanu “Post-Credits Scene” during ESAPW, but consider that more of a loose “teaser” for the project than anything. Once I get to the script that scene’s meant to appear in, I will rewrite it and it may have a few tiny details different. Anything else I write in the CIU will be tagged with “ciu project” (no quotes) so you can find it easily there!

What other Choices books besides Endless Summer are going to be involved? I’ll be explaining that in the separate CIU post I plan to make soon, but in the meantime...

FADE IN:

INT. L.A.P.D. STATION - OFFICE - NIGHT (FIVE MONTHS AGO)

A man in a crisp suit, his back to the camera, scrolls through data about Rourke International on his computer screen; images of Jake, Lila, and Aleister appear beside a satellite view of the Caribbean Sea. Scattered on his desk are copies of the various dossier pages that Ian, Alyssa, Jake, and Estela had all found across La Huerta. The man sighs and rubs his forehead in frustration.

The door swings open, and a young auburn-haired policewoman rushes into the office, slightly out of breath. This is Jake’s sister, REBECCA MCKENZIE. The man looks up as she enters.

MAN: ...Officer McKenzie? I told you I’d let you know when I found something-

REBECCA: They’re pulling you off the case. You’re getting reassigned. I asked her not to, but-

MAN: Listen, Officer, I told you before: technically this case is well outside my jurisdiction. It’s not even in this country, let alone the city. I figured it was only a matter of time ‘til they wanted me working on something a bit closer to home.

REBECCA: But... what the hell am I supposed to...

MAN: Whatever I’m being reassigned to, I promise I’ll keep digging up leads on my own time. An entire island can’t just go missing with no one noticing; there’s definitely something fishy going on.

REBECCA: Yeah, and my brother was on that island. You’re a detective! Solving mysteries is your job!

MAN: Well, this mystery is tougher than most. But I promise we’ll figure it out eventually. He’s not the only person who’s gone missing in that area last month, besides.

He indicates the scattered pages on his desk.

MAN: Fifteen missing, including your brother. Don’t worry. You know I’ve got plenty of friends in high places.

Rebecca smiles, reassured by his words.

MAN: So what’s this new case I’m being reassigned to? I swear, if it’s another celebrity feud over nothing-

REBECCA: Nothing like that. You heard about the Tower Murders the other night?

MAN: Yeah, I thought Barton and Sanchez were handling that one-

Rebecca shakes her head.

REBECCA: Nobody can figure it out. Captain wants you. Specifically. There’s even rumors that... y’know... Li might be behind it.

MAN: Heh. Of course they think she’s behind it. If Li was behind everything everyone claimed she was, there’d have to be at least a dozen of her running around. 'Sides, murder isn’t her style.

He stands up from his desk, adjusting his suit and tie.

MAN: Tell the Captain I’ll do it.

REBECCA: You will? Just like that? But what about my brother?

MAN: I’m at a dead end for now anyway. I’ll find this murderer, get ‘em locked up, and be back on the La Huerta disappearances faster than you can say “Case closed.”

Rebecca laughs in spite of herself, then recovers and nods professionally.

REBECCA: Thank you, Detective. I’ll let the Captain know, and she’ll fill you in on the details. And... I appreciate what you’re doing for me. For my brother.

MAN: Of course. After all, there’s never been a case I couldn’t crack, and I’m not about to let that change!

Rebecca leaves the office. The man turns and faces the camera, adjusting his badge, which reveals his name: DETECTIVE DAVE REYES. He shakes his head, glancing back at the images on his computer once more.

DAVE: What the hell are you up to, Rourke?

FADE TO BLACK.

TO BE CONTINUED IN... MOST WANTED: THE HOLLYWOOD KILLER

It’s all connected...

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darnedchild · 6 years

Text

Universally Monstrous - The Phantom of the Opera

It’s Sherlolly Halloween. This year I’m playing around with short ficlets loosely based off the classic Universal Monsters.

Universally Monstrous

The Phantom of the Opera

It was a well-known secret that New Scotland Yard was haunted.

Or “haunted” if you talked to certain people.

The Phantom—as he had been christened by someone who obviously spent far too much time reading paranormal fiction and not enough doing their job—seemed to favour the basement level of the building.

Whispered tales of a rare disembodied voice offering biting criticism and unwanted advice routinely made the rounds through the locker room.

“He said it was criminal that I was allowed in the lab,” Anderson had groused over a shared bag of crisps during an impromptu gossip session after a departmental meeting.

One of the lab techs rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure the Phantom isn’t the only one who thinks that. Have you talked to Donovan lately or are you two still fighting?”

Anderson ignored the other man. “I’m not kidding, Hooper. When I checked the shadows to find the owner of the voice, they were empty. The Phantom is real.”

Molly might have scoffed if she hadn’t heard the voice herself.

The first time she’d thought it was a prank, one of the other’s playing a joke on the new hire.

She’d been sitting at her desk during her lunchbreak, working on the first draft of the fictional crime novel (with a hint of romance between the feisty pathologist and the gruff cop with a heart of gold and abs of steel) that had been screaming “Write me!” in her brain for the last few years.

Molly had been slogging away at a particularly frustrating scene, one that delved into the mind and motives of the murderer, when the need for something caffeinated and bag of crisps grew too great to ignore. She’d minimized her document and headed toward the cafeteria. When she’d returned twenty minutes later her manuscript was open on the laptop screen, front and centre, and someone had left a long and detailed paragraph of where she’d left off.

“What the hell?” She’d been extremely annoyed that one of her co-workers had invaded her privacy like that and was mentally preparing the bollocksing of the century when the Voice spoke.

“That’s not how he’d think. Your killer.”

Molly had jumped, “Who are you? Where are you?”

“Don’t be dull,” the Voice admonished her as if it—he—was disappointed in her response. “You know who I am, I hear you lot chattering on about me all the time.”

She huffed. “We don’t chatter.” Molly was met with silence for several seconds. “Well, I don’t, at any rate.”

“True. You do tend to hold your tongue when the some of the others begin to wax poetic about the most ridiculous things.” She’d thought the Voice had been coming from the left before, but now it was clearly coming from the right.

Molly turned a full circle to look for someplace an adult (for he definitely had the deep, smooth voice of a man) could hide. She even ducked to look under the desk.

“Your villain’s thoughts are far too chaotic and disjointed for the methodical serial killer you’ve set him up as.”

“How would you know?” Could the stories be true? Was there really a ghost haunting Forensics? “Is this what you did in a past life? Get into the minds of criminals? Did you work down here, or maybe as detective?”

She thought she heard him laugh, and the husky sound caused a sensation like the touch of warm fingers softly brushing up her spine. She shuddered as he spoke again, “Something like that.”

“So, is this one of those ‘unfinished business’ things, or…”

Molly held her breath and waited but silence was her only answer.

Two weeks later she was sitting at her desk, transcribing her notes from the latest autopsy when she heard, “Excellent catch on the Marshall case.”

“Thanks. I thought it was a long shot, but what could it hurt to run an extra test or two so-“ Her body recognized his voice before her brain did. Her skin tingled and something at her core warmed even as she spun in her chair to search the room with her eyes.

Three days after that, she’d been working on her novel during another lunch break—she’d taken the Phantom’s advice and completely reworked the scene with her villain’s inner thoughts—when she realized she wasn’t completely alone. Her hands stilled on the keyboard. “Hello.”

Molly heard him draw in a startled breath somewhere behind her. “How did you know I was here?”

“You’re not as stealthy as you think.” She slowly turned, completely unsurprised to see that the room was empty. Still, she felt that he was nearby. “I noticed a . . . scent after your last two visits.” It had been clean and masculine, not clouded with cologne or the musky bodywashes that were popular amongst the male staff. “And there was a creak, something shifted under your weight this time.”

He was silent for so long she began to worry he might have left again. “Interesting.” She got the feeling he was watching her, studying her.

“You, uh, you’re not a ghost, are you?” Molly almost tripped over her words.

“Of course not. Didn’t you know, ghosts don’t exist.” He seemed amused.

She heard another creak and her eyes darted around the room, hoping to pinpoint where the noise was coming from. “So you just lurk, then. For fun, or . . .”

“I observe.” As if that explained anything. “Some of your co-workers are idiots. Most of them.”

Molly opened her mouth to argue then shrugged. He wasn’t exactly wrong. “Still, I’m pretty sure what you’re doing isn’t exactly legal. For a vast number of reasons.”

He laughed again, and it made her shudder just like the last time. A good shudder. The kind that was going to keep her awake thinking the sort of things she shouldn’t. “I’ve never been worried about legalities.”

“Aren’t you worried I’m going to run upstairs and report you?” she asked.

“Are you?” The Phantom’s seemed to come from directly behind her, which was impossible as her desk was set against a wall. She didn’t bother turning around as he continued to speak. “Would it make you feel better to know at least one Detective Inspector is aware of my secret, and has been for nearly as long as I’ve been ‘haunting’ the halls.”

It did actually. “Do I know them?”

“Possibly. His name is Lestrade.”

“Oh, I’ve worked with him!” He’d come looking for her six months before, requesting her assistance with a particularly brutal double homicide. “Wait, did you-?”

He hummed, a noncommittal answer if she’d ever heard one.

“Am I allowed you know your name? You obviously know mine and I can’t keep calling you the Phantom like some 1920’s horror movie.” She bit her lip.

After a long moment, he answered. “It’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” Molly tested the word, rolled it around on her tongue like a decadent treat. She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So now that I know you’re real, are you going to show yourself?”

Silence. He was gone. “Okay. I’ll take that as a no.”

Over the next few months she slowly stopped joining her co-workers in the cafeteria for lunch or the afternoon break, telling herself she was choosing to stay in her office to work on her novel.

That Sherlock had become a semi-regular visitor at those times had nothing to do with it.

Right?

She often found herself verbally working out plot points and dialogue, smiling when the disembodied Voice occasionally replied to offer suggestions or encouraged her to think through the moment with only a bit of gentle prodding and praise. Even better, as far as she was concerned, they’d begun to speak of other things. Her life outside of work, bits and pieces of his (although he still kept a tight lip on most everything), books they’d read (they were both voracious readers), all sorts of little things that had begun to add up.

“So this is going to be one of the really difficult bits for me to write.” Molly leaned back in her chair and pushed away from her desk on the squeaky wheels so she could spin around in a lazy circle. They’d been talking for nearly half an hour. “There’s been this building sexual tension between Brandon and Rachel almost from the moment the first met. Now they’ve just survived a near death experience, emotions are high, the attraction is there.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything and Molly sighed. “I know, it’s a cliché but it just seems right at this point in their relationship. But I’ve never really done that. Well, I mean, I’ve done that; just not the passionate, all consuming kind of . . . that.”

He still remained silent. She couldn’t help but fidget. “It’s just, it’s been a long time and even then it was more of a ‘let’s scratch this itch’ than a ‘take me against the wall right this second’ thing. God, I think my ex Tom would have hurt himself laughing if I even dared to suggest it. If anything it was boring and I just wanted to get it over with so I could see if there was anything good on the telly. And I have absolutely no idea why I’m telling you any of this.”

“I’m not really sure why you’re doing it, either. What is it you want from me, Molly?” He sounded almost as uncomfortable as she felt. Not for the first time, she wished she could see his face to better read his emotions.

“Well, you’re . . . You’ve got that voice. And you’re smart. And you have a wicked sense of humour. I know you hang around here most of the time, but surely you-you’ve . . . I can’t imagine there would be a mad scramble for the remote with you. That is, with you and-and the person you were with. So, I was hoping you could help reel me in if I get a little too . . . unrealistic? With the scene?” That was it. She was going to go home and drown her embarrassment in a carton of cookies and cream ice cream and try to pretend she’d never started this conversation.

He sighed. “Molly, I don’t know what you imagine I do when I’m not here, but I am absolutely positive it isn’t whatever you think it is.”

“What?”

“Fuck it,” Sherlock sighed. The large shelving unit that was bolted to the wall slowly swung inward to reveal a dark doorway. She could just make out a tall figure standing in the shadows.

Molly got to her feet as he stepped into the room and she saw him clearly for the first time. He was tall and fit, dark but impeccably tailored clothes, a mop of soft looking curls, and a strange black mask that covered the left half of his face.

“Is this supposed to be a joke?” she asked. She’d referenced the old Phantom of the Opera movie before, did he take that as a challenge? Was he making fun of her?

“I wish it was.” Sherlock lowered his head and reached up to carefully remove his mask. He took a deep breath before he lifted his face and turned toward her fully.

Whatever had happened to him had ruined half of his face. He was lucky he was still able to see out of his left eye. “How?”

“Acid. I’d barely begun working with Lestrade as a Consulting Detective—you wouldn’t have heard of the term, I invented the position—and the abusive husband of one of my clients decided to get his revenge. It could have been worse. As you noticed, I was able to keep my eye and my mouth and vocal cords were virtually undamaged. Believe it or not, I was even more of a socially inept arsehole and my interest in relationships had been virtually non-existent before the incident. And then this happened.” He gestured to his face. “You can see how off putting this is to another person. It was easier to seclude myself than deal with people every day.”

Molly had questions. A lot of questions. “Okay, I get the wanting to stay away from other people thing, but how in the heck did you get a secret door in the basement of Scotland Yard?”

“Doors, plural. I have a contact in the government and a massive trust fund.” He blinked at her. “Why haven’t you run off or retched on your shoes? Why are you pretending this doesn’t bother you?”

“Last week I had to do a post-mortem on a floater who had been in the Thames for several weeks. A disfiguring facial injury and healed scar tissue is nothing in comparison.” She bit her lip and took a step closer. “Could I-Would it be all right if I-“

“Touch my face?” Sherlock asked at the same time Molly worked up the nerve to say, “Get a tour of your underground supervillain lair after my shift ends?”

They stared at each other for a long moment before he nodded. “I guess that would be acceptable. As long as no one saw you roaming the halls after you were supposed to be gone. As incompetent as most of the idiots upstairs can be, they are trained law enforcement officers.”

Molly smiled. “One more question, and this one is super important. Can you get wi-fi down there?"

#sherlolly halloween at 221b #2018 sherlolly halloween #sherlolly

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seanpatricklittlewriter · 7 years

Text

Vicious Cycle

A while back, I wrote about the physical aspects of my creative process—where I write, the tools I used, etc… Now, to mix it up a little bit, I want to talk about the mental aspects of the creative process, at least the mental aspects of my creative process. I can’t speak for every creative person, and I certainly can’t speak for other writers.

I am impressed by how some writers have an incredible, workman-like approach to the craft. Stephen King is amazing, of course. He is prolific. He writes every day, rain or shine, holiday or not. He’s at his desk by seven or eight in the morning, and he goes until lunch, maybe later. Of course, there are other writers than make King look like he’s suffering from writer’s block. John Creasy, a British mystery novelist, has written over 500 books under a dozen pen names. That guy is a workhorse. In Stephen King’s book, ON WRITING: A MEMOIR OF THE CRAFT, King talks about Anthony Trollope:

“At the other end of the spectrum, there are writers like Anthony Trollope. He wrote humongous novels (Can You Forgive Her? is a fair enough example; for modern audiences it might be retitled Can You Possibly Finish It?), and he pumped them out with amazing regularity. His day job was as a clerk in the British Postal Department (the red public mailboxes all over Britain were Anthony Trollope’s invention); he wrote for two and a half hours each morning before leaving for work. This schedule was ironclad. If he was in mid-sentence when the two and a half hours expired, he left that sentence unfinished until the next morning. And if he happened to finish one of his six-hundred-page heavyweights with fifteen minutes of the session remaining, he wrote The End, set the manuscript aside, and began work on the next book.”

That is an admirable work ethic. And an incredible pace. Every writer has to figure out what works for him or herself. Writing is a personal art. Some people work better at night. Some in the early morning. Some need quiet. Some blast music (the louder, the better). Some have little spaces set up where they write daily. Some write in various locations—you get the idea. Whatever works best for you, you must do. When people tell me they’d like to write, but they don’t have the time, I always think, “Then you don’t really want to write.” You make time for what’s important to you, always. If you value television (as I do), you find the time to watch. Runners find time to run. Anglers find time to fish. Painters find time to paint. Barbarian hordes find time to bathe in the blood of their enemies. You make time for what is important to you.

When it comes to the amount of dedication it takes to write 300 pages of a rough draft, that has never been a problem for me. I have been churning out novels since I was in high school. I wrote at least one or two piles of garbage in high school, and I probably cranked out several thousand pages of unreadable hack when I was in college. (This is a good thing, though—Brian Michael Bendis said that you have to write about 20,000 pages of slop before you start to figure out what you’re doing.) I can always find time to write. Even when I worked jobs that had me doing 12-hour days, I would manage to scrape out a paragraph or two at night. Before John Grisham quit law to write full-time, he wrote on legal pads between court cases. I read a story about a mystery writer who was driving semis, and he would dictate his story into cassettes while he drove, then he paid a local gal in his hometown to transcribe the stories to MS Word for him. I have known servers who wrote scraps of stories in order pads with cheap pens standing at the counter waiting for an order to be put up. Point is—if it is important to you, you’ll do it.

Writing isn’t about waiting for some mythical muse to kick you in the ass. It’s not about art. It’s not about being attuned to the celestial heavens. Over my lifetime of writing, reading about writing, taking classes on writing, and teaching classes on writing, more than anything else I’ve learned, writing is about putting your butt in a seat and writing. That’s it. No magic. No inspiration. Just sit and do. If you can’t do that, you can’t write. I get people (especially students) telling me about stories they have in their heads. They can summarize them well. They can tell you about them for days. However, the story stays unwritten until they can put themselves in the chair and write it out. My good friend, Nella Citino, gave me a mug a few years ago that I keep on my desk at home. It says, “Any idiot can come up with a good idea—get it written!” That is the truth of the matter. Put up, or shut up. Sit down and write.

That’s all fine and dandy to say, I know. The actual practice of it is much harder in reality. I have learned that my own creative process tends to follow an ebb and flow. When I’m writing, I’m 100 percent writing. I don’t want to edit. I don’t want to read someone else’s book. I don’t want to watch TV. I write as long and as hard as I can. I write until the backs of my hands hurt from typing. I write until my vision goes blurry from staring at the screen.

When I get into editing, I don’t have time for writing. The two modes are different parts of my brain, it seems. I cannot switch back and forth between the modes easily. I don’t have time for someone else’s book, either. I cannot enjoy reading a new book when I’m in editing mode. I get too critical. I get too into the “That’s not what I would have done there…” mode, and I start to hate that book. I feel like I have unfairly subjected some authors to that mode of my brain and now I dislike their stuff.

When I am out of the writing and editing modes, I get fully into the reading mode. I will read six or seven hours a day. I will put away three or four books a week when I’m in that mode. I have always been a fast reader, and when I’m in that mode, I read even faster. I enjoy reading in that mode. When I’m trying to read when I’m in writing mode, I have no patience for reading. Why read someone else’s story when I’m not done telling my own, yet? I do force myself to read when I’m in writing mode, but it’s only after I’ve put in a full day of writing, or I’ve had to take a break from writing because my hands hurt too much to continue. (Getting old is for the birds.)

My final mode in the creative process is the do nothing mode. It happens usually after I first finish a book and my brain begins to feed me the “why bother” rap it has perfected over the years. “Why bother?” it says. “Wouldn’t you be happier lounging back into depression and playing video games for fourteen straight hours?”

--You have a point, Brain.

“How about you maybe just watch Scrubs reruns instead of writing?”

--Brain, you are on fire!

“Hey—remember five years ago when you accidently read that really negative review of one of your books? Go back and reread that comment so you know not to do this anymore.”

--As you command, Overlord.

This do-nothing mode is one of the worst things my brain tries to do to me. It is very easy to slip into, because doing nothing is literally the easiest thing in the world to do. Doing nothing requires zero effort. Doing anything at all requires 100 percent more effort than doing nothing.

I have quit writing books at least a thousand times in my life, maybe more. Every time this weird creative cycle in my brain hits this point in the rotation, I quit being a writer. “Been thirty years with no real success to show for it, Fatso,” says my Brain. “Do the world a favor and shelf your keyboard.”

And I do. I do every time. Every time I hit that point in my creative process, I officially quit writing.

Sometimes, that brain-forced retirement lasts months. Sometimes, it’s only a few hours. But I always quit.

I also always come back.

In the movie, THROW MOMMA FROM THE TRAIN, Billy Crystal uses the expression, “Writers write. Always.” It is something my father has repeated to me many times over the years. It is something I have imparted to my students many times. It is okay to quit writing. If you stay retired from it, though—that is where you run into problems.

I have found that I am able to claw my way back from those self-imposed bouts of retirement through sheer force of will. Pick up the computer. Open the file. Put your damn hands on the keyboard and make some words. Sometimes, I do that, and I will only get a few words, maybe a sentence or two. Nevertheless, I will have written something. That’s the key. The next day, I might only get a few words again. Maybe I only sat at the computer for ten minutes before letting that negative part of my brain take over for the day. (“C’mon Fatboy…let’s go re-watch THE PRINCESS BRIDE.” –Swell idea, Brain.) But it IS a few words that I did not have that morning, and that is what counts.

I am getting better and the productivity side of writing. I am getting better at knowing that I can sit down and churn out five or ten pages in a sitting, even if I don’t “feel” like doing it. Those pages might need some enhancement later on, but they will exist. It is always easier to go back and enhance. You cannot edit if the pages don’t exist.

I know I’m hardly an expert on writing. I know that my pathetic sales are a misty, almost evaporated drop in the wide and vast lake of publishing. I know that I am not an expert on the creative process. This is just a summary of how my brain works when I write. It is why I do what I do. And why I want to write. It might not help you, but it is something to read and consider.

If you struggle in a creative field like I do, like so many of us do, I think it is important to remember that we are not alone. We are all tiny little ships making our own way on a large, cruel sea. Your mast might snap. You might hit a rock. A big whale might sneeze on you. Maybe you don’t feel like holding the tiller anymore. This is okay. It is all part of the process.

But don’t give up.

Keep sailing.

I hope we all get to where we want to go.

#writing #writingprocess #fiction #novels #novelist #muse #inspiration #struggle

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