#In which the author has no self-control and posts the next chapter IMMEDIATELY

[notforconsumption]

Runner Five has had more uncomfortable conversations in her life, but at least one of those was with a cannibal so they probably don’t count.

Simon, for his part, does his best to make it worse.

[scorpionyx9621]

Do you think Jason Todd fandom is kinda toxic? Because it seems like NO MATTER what DC do, there'll always be complains. Forget the bad adaptation like Titans. Even Judd Winick cannot escape the criticism with how he potrayed Robin!Jason. They just never satisfied.

SORRY, IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO RESPOND TO THIS. I just moved from Washington D.C. to Seattle, which, for my non-American friends, that's 4442km away. And I DROVE THERE ALL BY MYSELF. And now I'm trying to find new work in a new city and trying to stay mentally healthy and positive. Life is exciting but hard and scary.

*sighs*

As someone who was a fandom elder with V*ltr*n. I've seen some of the worst when it comes to fandom behavior. I'm talking people baking food with shaving razors and trying to give them to the showrunners. I'm talking leaking major plot details and refusing to take it down unless they make their ship canon (I am looking at you, Kl*nce stans) For the most part, DC Comics has had a decades-long reputation of treating their fans like trash and not caring what they think so from what I've seen, we all just grumble and complain in our corners of the internet about how we don't like how X comic portrays Jason Todd.

The challenge with Jason Todd is that he's your clinical anti-hero, the batfamily's Draco in Leather Pants, he's a jerkass woobie, and on top of all of that, he's a Tumblr sexyman. It's a perfect storm for a very fun but frustrating character to be a fan of. It doesn't help that every writer decides to re-invent the wheel every time Jason comes up so his canon lore is confusing at best and inconsistent as a standard.

I guess starting with a general brief on who Jason is and what is uniform about him with every instance he's appeared in comics/media.

Grew up in a poor family in Gotham with a dad who was a petty-mid-level criminal, and a mother who dies of a drug overdose.

Survives on the street on his own by committing petty crimes and potentially even engaging in sexual acts to keep himself alive.

Is cornered by Batman and taken in after Dick Grayson quits/is fired

Becomes the second Robin, but is known for being the harsher, more brutal Robin.

Is killed by Joker after being tortured, but somehow comes back to life and regains senses through the Lazarus Pit

Resolves himself to be better than Batman by basically being Batman but kills people.

Where there has been a lot of conflict in the fandom is the fact that Jason Todd is not a character that is written consistently. DC Comics loves to go with the narrative that Jason was "bad from the start" and was the "bad robin" when, yes, he has trouble controlling his anger, but he also still is just as invested in seeing the best of Gotham City and trying to be a positive change for the world as any other DC Comics hero.

Where I get frustrated with the fandom is its ability to knit-pick every detail of a comic they don't like while completely disregarding everything that makes the comics great and worth it to read. My example being Urban Legends. To which most people had pretty mixed reactions to. I was critical of the comic at first but as it went along I ended up really liking it. I have a feeling DC Comics went to Chip Zdarsky and told him he had 6 issues to bring Jason back into the Bat Family, and honestly he didn't do a bad job. Did it feel rushed? Absolutely. I wish there was more development of Jason and Bruce's characters and their dynamic as a whole. However, where I see a lot of people being angry and upset with Urban Legends is that they feel Zdarsky needlessly wrote Jason as an incompetent fool who needs Bruce to save him.

Whether or not that was the intention of Zdarsky is up to debate. However, and this may be controversial, but I don't think he wrote Jason Todd out of character at all. For as fearsome, intimidating, and awesome as Red Hood is. Jason is a character who is absolutely driven by his emotions. Why do you think he donned the role of Red Hood? As a response to his anger towards The Joker for killing him, and towards Bruce for not taking action against The Joker and for seemingly replacing him so quickly after he died. Jason didn't care about being the murderous Robin Hood or for being the bloody hammer of justice against N*zi's and P*d*ph*les. He only cared originally about making The Joker and Bruce pay. It wasn't until he trained under the best assassins in the world and realized most of them were horrific criminals who trafficked children and were p*dos that Talia began to realize that the teachers that she sent Jason to train under started dying horrific and painful deaths.

The entire story of the Cheer story in Batman Urban Legends was started because it finally forced some consequences upon Jason. Tyler, aka Blue Hood's father was a drug dealer who gave his supply to his wife and kids. And when Tyler's father admitted he gave the drugs to Tyler, it immediately made him fall within the self-imposed philosophical kill-list of Jason Todd. And Jason, well, he proceeds to kill Tyler's father. When this happens, Jason is in shock. Tyler's dad fit the bill to easily and justifiably be killed by Jason. We've never seen Jason having to deal with the consequences of being a murderous vigilante on a micro-level. When Jason realizes what he's done in that he's murdered Tyler's dad, he's shocked. He tells Babs the truth. He does a rational thing because he's in shock. He doesn't know what to do, he never has had to face the consequences of his actions as Red Hood and now the gravity of befriending a child as a vigilante hero who kills people just set in when he killed the father of the same child he was just introduced to.

(Oh here's a little aside because it had to be said, Jason would not have been a good father or a good mentor to Tyler and absolutely should not have been his new Robin. Jason is a man who is in his early 20's (not saying men in their early 20's can't be good fathers at all) who is a brutal serial killer using the guise of a vigilante anti-hero to let him escape most of the law. the complications of having the man who murdered your father adopt you and make you his sidekick are way too numerous for me to explain in a long-winded already heavy Tumblr essay post. There's a reason why we don't advocate for a story where Joe Chill adopted Bruce Wayne or one where Tony Zucco took in Dick Grayson.)

The next biggest argument is that they feel that Jason is giving up his guns as a means to just be invited back into the Bat-Family. To which I will tell anyone who has that argument to go actually read Urban Legends. Already have and still have that argument? Please re-read it. Don't want to? That's okay, I will paste the images from the comic where Jason specifically says that he doesn't want to give up his weapons for Bruce and his real reasoning down below since the comic isn't exactly readily accessible.

Jason gave up the guns because he felt the gravity of what he had done and knows how it'll effect Tyler. Thankfully his mom is alive and in recovery. But Tyler doesn't have a father anymore. And Jason killed Tyler's father. It may have been in accordance to Jason's philosophy, but it was a case where it blurred the lines. Jason Todd isn't a black and white character, just very dark gray. He doesn't kill aimlessly like the Joker. If you are on Jason's list you probably have done something pretty horrific, and also just in general, being in his way or being a threat to him. Mind you, in early days of Red Hood and the Outlaws (Image below) Jason almost killed 10 innocent civilians in a town in Colorado all because they saw him kill a monster. That being said, Jason isn't aimless in his kills.

(Also can we just take a moment to appreciate Kenneth Rocafort's art? DC Comics said we need to rehabilitate Jason Todd's image and Kenneth Rocafort said hold my beer: It's so SO GOOD)

That being said, the key emphasis in the story of Cheer asides from trying to introduce Jason Todd back into the Bat Family and give an actual purpose for him being there, other than him just kind of being there ala Bowser every time he shows up for Go Kart racing, Tennis, Golf, Soccer, and the Olympic games when Mario invites him, is that Jason and Bruce ultimately both want the same thing. Jason wants to be welcomed back into the family and to be loved and appreciated. Bruce want's Jason back as his son and wants to love and protect Jason. Both of these visions are shown in the last chapter of Cheer while under the effect of the Cheer Gas. It's ultimately this love and appreciation they both have for each other that helps them overcome their challenge and win.

Jason Todd is a character who, just like Bruce, has been through so much pain and so much hate in his life. The two are meant to parallel each other. While Bruce chose to see the best in everyone, giving every rogue in his gallery the option to be helped and give them a second chance, hence why he never kills, Jason has a similar view on wanting to protect the public, but he understands that some crimes are so heinous they cannot be forgiven, or that some habitual criminals are due to stay habitual criminals, and need to be put down. But at the end of the day, the two of them both try to protect people in their own ways.

I am aware that through the writings of various DC Comics authors such as Scott Lobdell and Judd Winick, the two have had a very tumultuous relationship. And rightfully so, I am by no means saying that Scott Lobdell writing an arc where Bruce literally beats Jason to within an inch of his life in Red Hood and the Outlaws, nor Judd Winick's interpretation of Under the Red Hood where Bruce throws the Batarang at Jason's neck, slicing his throat and leaving him ambiguously for dead at the end of the comic is appropriate considering DC Comics seems to be trying everything they can to integrate Jason back into the family. That being said, a lot of these writings have shaped the narrative of Jason and Bruce's relationship and have an integral effect on the way the fandom views the two. It doesn't help that Zdarsky acknowledged Lobdell's life-beating of Jason by Bruce at the very end of Cheer by having Bruce give Jason his old outfit back as a means of mending the fence between the two of them. That does complicate a lot of things in terms of how they are viewed by the fandom and helps to cause an even greater divide between the two.

Regardless, I want to emphasize the fact that Jason Todd is a part of the family of his own accord. Yes, he's quite snarky and deadpan in almost every encounter. However, Jason is absolutely a part of the family and has been for a while of his own will. There's a great moment in Detective Comics that emphasizes this. Jason cares about his family because it is his found family. Yes, they may be warry about him and use him as a punching back and/or heckle him. At the end of the day, we're debating the family dynamics of a fictional playboy billionaire vigilante whose kleptomania took the form of adopting troubled children and turning them into vigilante heroes. Jason Todd wants a family that will love and support him. This is a key definition of his character at its most basic. This was proven during the events of Cheer and is being reenforced by DC Comics every time they get the opportunity to do so.

Now, none of this is to say that I hate Judd Winick. I do not, I don't like the fact that in all of his writings of Jason, he just writes him as a dangerous psychopath, and Winick himself admits to seeing Jason as nothing much more than a psychopath. Yet Winick is the one who the majority of the fandom clings to as the one true good writer of Jason Todd because 'Jason was competent, dangerous, smart' Listen, friends, Jason is all of that and I will never deny it. However, what I love about Jason isn't that he's dangerously smart of that writers either write him as angsty angry Tumblr sexyman bait or that they write him as an infantile man child with a gun. There's a large contention of this fandom that has an obsession with Jason Todd being this vigilante gunman who is hot and sexy and while I definitely get the appeal. It is very creepy and downright disturbing that all of you hyperfixate on his use of guns and ability to be a murderer. It is creepy and I'm not necessarily here for it.

What I love about Jason Todd is that despite all of the pain, all of the heartache, all of the betrayal, and bullying, and death, and anguish. Jason Todd is one of the most loving and supportive characters in all of DC Comics. Jason has been through so much in his life, but he still chooses to love. He still chooses to see the bright side in people. Yes, he takes a utilitarian approach and chooses to kill certain villains, but at the end of the day he wants to see a better world, and he wants to be loved. It takes so much courage and so much heart to learn to love again after one has been abused or traumatized. I would not blame Jason at all if he said fuck it and just went full solo and vigilante evil. He has every right to, but he still chooses to be with the Bat Family of his own accord. That's something that I see a lot of in myself. I have been through a lot of trauma and yet I try to be a better person myself in any way that I can. It is extremely admirable of Jason to allow love back into his heart when he really doesn't need to. He kills and he protects because he has this love of society. It may have been shaped by anger and hatred, but Jason has found his place amongst people who love him and value him. I think Ducra, from Red Hood and the Outlaws put it best in the image given below.

To end this tangent, I love Jason Todd and all of his sexy dangerousness, but it's far more than that. As much as Jason may be dangerous and snarky, he loves his family without a shadow of a doubt. I look up to Jason Todd because despite all of his pain and all of his trauma, he still choses to love. Jason Todd is a character who is someone I love because despite all of his flaws and having a very toxic fandom, he still serves as a character filled with so much heart and so much passion. I wish more writers would understand that. But for now I will live with what I have. Even though the fandom may be vocal about it's hatred for his characterization, I choose to love Jason regardless because he is a character who chooses love and acceptance regardless of his pain. Jason Todd is by no means a good person in any sense of the word. He has easily killed upwards of 100 people by now. He is a character who is flawed and complex but ultimately is one who powers forwards and finds love and heart in a place from so much pain and anguish. That is what I love about Jason Todd. After all, to quote a famous undead robot superhero, "What is grief, if not love persevering?" Jason Todd chooses to love despite all of the trauma and pain and grief. Yes, he is hardened in his exterior, but inside there is a man with a lot of love to give and someone who deserves the world in my eyes.

[queensoybean0724]

Succession Chapter 5 (Karl Heisenberg/female reader) Resident Evil Village fanfic

Here’s chapter 5!  I hope y'all enjoy the sexual tension!!!

Title: Succession Chapter 5

Characters: Karl Heisenberg, female reader, the Duke

Rating: PG-13 for language, sexual tension (also may be triggering with kidnapping and forceful grabbing) this is a slow burn; it will get very smutty and spicy later on!

Summary: you discover a long lost relative has died and made you his sole beneficiary.  While flying to collect your inheritance, you crash in a village in Romania.

Author’s Note: I do not own the characters from Resident Evil Village.  This is a work of fiction.  Anything remotely similar to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter 5

When he left you to go retrieve your belongings from the crash, you had very little to do to entertain yourself.  You looked over the books he had lying around.  A few books were in German.  The other books were of topics you didn’t find interesting.  But there were a few pieces of fiction that proved to be of interest and passed the time until Heisenberg returned.

Five hours later, you heard the keys in the lock and you jumped for joy...not because he was back, but because you were in terrible need of the bathroom.  

“Honey, I’m home!” Heisenberg called out before laughing at his own joke.  You looked down to see your suitcase and messenger bag as well as two other small suitcases under his arms.  Son of a bitch, you thought, he actually found my stuff!

“You were actually able to find my bags?” you asked, watching as he placed them down at your feet.

“I sure did, doll face,” he answered, “I also found a few other suitcases that I think could be of use to you...they look to have been owned by women on the flight...and I doubt they’ll be using them anymore…”  

“Hey!” you said with an air of disbelief, “everyone on that plane died!  I appreciate you bringing me more clothes, but show some respect!”

Heisenberg chuckled and held up his hands in surrender.  As you stooped down to inspect your bags, Heisenberg gave you a thorough once over.  His long sleeved shirt hung on you, the hem of it coming to your mid thigh.  Your hair was rustled and in need of a good brushing, but it gave you a wild, post-sex look that made him stiffen slightly in his pants.

You stood up and looked up at him.  “Thank you, Karl,” you said and his cock stiffened even more at the sound of his name on your lips.

“It was nothing,” he said, turning and walking towards the table, “I was going through the wreckage for scrap metal anyway...just thought I’d try and look for your stuff while I was at it…”

“Karl?” you spoke...and once again Heisenberg had to bite his tongue to keep from groaning at his name, “can I use the toilet?  I really have to go and there isn’t one in here…”

“Yeah, sure…” he muttered.  He turned towards you and grabbed your arm, pulling you out of the door.

“Oww!  You don’t have to grab me so hard!” you spat as he walked you across the hall.  Heisenberg said nothing; he simply opened the door.  You looked in to find a small room with a toilet and a steel sink.

“Come back into the room when you are done,” he growled, “do not make me chase after you again…”  You ignored his moody temperament and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind you.  Cursing under his breath, Heisenberg walked back into his room.

“What the fuck are you doing, Karl?” Heisenberg muttered to himself as he grabbed a drinking glass, filled it with water, and sat down at the table.  He reached down to adjust his cock in his pants before digging in his jacket for another cigar.

A few moments later, he heard the bathroom door open.  He listened for fast retreating steps running down the hallway, but was pleasantly surprised when he heard you walk back into the room.

*

“How’s that, huh?  Comfy?”

Heisenberg had secured your wrists in the makeshift handcuffs that hung from his headboard, making sure that you were not going anywhere for the evening.  You looked up at him and shot him the most murderous glare you could muster, to which he let out a laugh.  Releasing your wrists, he walked over to his dresser.

After you returned from the bathroom, Heisenberg left and locked you in again, allowing you to change into your clean clothes.  When he came back, you were in your pajamas:  a black halter top and blue drawstring shorts.  You were sitting at the fireplace, keeping warm and sitting on a blanket.  You noticed his jaw clench and his shoulders stiffen when he looked at you.

He draped his trenchcoat over the back of the chair and told you there was an area in the factory where you could wash your clothes and hang them to dry and that he would take you there in the next few days.  You thanked him, but just when you thought he was actually kind, he grabbed you and began cuffing you to the bed.

“What time is it?” you asked as you plopped down on the bed, curling up on your side.  You pulled on the long chain so you could reach for the sheets and covers, pulling them up over your body.

“Past midnight,” Heisenberg answered, walking to his dresser.  You had lost all sense of time since the crash and you couldn’t believe how late it was.

You looked over at him, wanting to ask another question, when your voice and your brain stopped.  Heisenberg had removed his hat, his sunglasses, and the objects hanging from his neck, placing them on top of the dresser...and removed his shirt.  Your mouth opened as you took in his body.  He was in good shape; his back, chest, arms, and torso well defined from working in the factory.  He had scars that peppered his body, but seeing as he worked with steel and metal all day, that wasn’t unusual.

Heisenberg undid his belt and pulled it from the loops of his pants, wrapping it around his hands and placing it on the dresser.  Impure thoughts flowed through your mind of him using that belt on you...spanking you...restraining your wrists behind your back...wrapping it around your neck like a collar…

You laid your head back down on the pillow and pushed the intruding thoughts away.  This was a man who kidnapped you and is keeping you locked away in his factory.  He had countless bodies down below and who knows what he did with them.  He wouldn’t let you use a telephone or any sort of communication to get help.  Why was he keeping you here?

Heisenberg walked to the other side of the bed and slid under the covers.  He left the lamp on the table turned on in order to give you an ounce of comfort.  God knows you wouldn’t be able to sleep in the pitch black next to a stranger.

He glanced over at you curled up facing away from him, taking in your shoulders, your back, and the curve of your hips underneath the covers.  His lust for you was growing.  Hell, it took every ounce of self control not to throw you on his bed when he walked in and saw you sitting at his fireplace.  The light dancing off your face and the way your pajamas hugged your curves nearly did him in.  You had left his shirt on the table once you put your clothes on.  He picked it up when your back was turned, lifted it to his nose, and smelled your scent on his shirt.  He didn’t know how much more of this torture he could take.

Heisenberg turned his gaze to the ceiling, adjusted his cock in his pants again, and relaxed back into his pillow.

*

You awoke to the sounds of drawers opening and closing loudly.  Heisenberg didn’t make any attempt to be quiet so as not to disturb your sleep.  You blinked and groaned, turning your face into the pillow.

“Well, good morning, sunshine!” Heisenberg greeted as he tucked his shirt into his pants and grabbed his belt.  You groaned again.  You hadn’t slept well at all.  The weight of all that happened came to reality once again as you laid cuffed to the bed.  Anxiety brewed in your belly and the only reason you were able to drift off was after a long bout of crying once Heisenberg had fallen asleep.  The man had slept soundly, as was evident by his fitful snores throughout the night.

“Come on,” Heisenberg said, unlocking your restraints and letting them fall to the floor.  You sat up on the edge of the bed, rubbing your wrists.

“Where are we going?” you asked as you knelt beside your suitcase, grabbing some clothes.

“To see the Duke,” Heisenberg answered, “I need some supplies…”

He allowed you to dress in the bathroom across the hall and take your toiletries with you in order to brush your teeth, wash your face, and brush your hair.  Once you were done, you opened the door and found him leaning against the wall.  He had put on his trench coat, hat, and gloves while he waited.

Heisenberg made his way down the hall and you followed behind, much to his shock.  He half expected you to turn around and run the other way, desperate once again to get away from him.  The fact that you still stuck by his side made a slow smile spread across his face.

He slid open the large doors one at a time.  The air was cold in the early morning.  The sun was shining with just a few clouds in the sky.  It was a pretty day.  You looked over at Heisenberg as he put his sunglasses on.

You followed Heisenberg down the path and looked out towards the gate.  They were open wide and sitting there was a large wooden carriage.  The back doors were opened and there was an array of things hanging from the doors and sitting along the ground on either side of the carriage.  As the two of you approached, you saw a man sitting inside the carriage amongst the supplies.  He wore clothes that were smaller than his big frame.  A cigar was in his hand and he lifted it to his mouth.  Once his eyes fell on you, they widened slightly.

“Well well well...who do we have here?” the man asked, looking down at you.  Heisenberg said nothing to the man and immediately began searching through the wares.

“I’m Y/N,” you answered.  

“You can call me the Duke, Y/N...and it is lovely to meet you…”  He leaned down and extended his hand.  You stepped closer, stood up on your tiptoes, and shook the man’s hand, smiling.  He had a kind face and seemed very nice and polite.  “I don’t suppose you know anything of that plane crash I saw not too far from here…” the Duke mentioned.

You nodded just as Heisenberg grumbled under his breath.  “I was on the plane,” you said softly, “I don’t think anyone else survived other than myself…”

“Well,” the Duke said, “it’s a miracle you did survive.  The crash looked very unpleasant…”

“What will you take for this?” Heisenberg interrupted gruffly, holding up something wrapped in paper with PORK written on it.  The Duke rattled off a price to which Heisenberg offered a cheaper price.  The two of them bartered as you stood there in silence.

A loud huff came from the front of the carriage and you stepped to the side in order to see what made the noise.  A horse stood facing away, reins hanging from its mouth.  The horse was jet black with long hair falling from its neck.  You smiled.  You had always loved horses.

Walking closer to the animal, you placed your hand on its hip and ran your hand along the horse’s body as you walked closer to the front.  You remembered one summer when you took equestrian lessons and the trainer told you to always keep one hand on the horse as you walked around it in order not to spook the animal.

“Hey…” you said softly as you looked up into its eyes.  The horse let out another huff, the steam of its breath pushing out of its nose.  You smiled and slowly began to pet along its neck and hair.  The horse seemed very relaxed, allowing you to pet it.  You raised your other hand in front of its face and it nudged your hand.  You laughed softly as you praised the beautiful animal.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING??”

You jumped back from the horse and turned to see Heisenberg standing at the back of the carriage.  His gloved hands were balled into fists as he stood glaring at you.

“I’m petting the horse!” you answered shrilly.  

Jesus Christ, you thought, I wasn’t doing anything.  You were about to yell obscenities towards the man, but then you took in Heisenberg’s rigid stance and his chest rising and falling.  You knew exactly why he was so upset.  “...you thought I had run off, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Come back over here where I can see you…” he growled.

You walked back to Heisenberg and the Duke, mentally calling Heisenberg every filthy name you could think of.  Your arms were crossed in front of you and you kept your mouth shut.  You took in the scenery around you, kicking the dirt and rocks on the ground.

Finally, Heisenberg seemed to be finished with whatever supplies he needed from the Duke.  He paid for his things, loaded them into a sack provided by the Duke, and turned to you.  “Let’s go,” he muttered, grabbing your arm and walking back towards the factory.

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Y/N,” the Duke said.  You turned to look back at him, giving him a small smile and a wave.  As you continued walking with Heisenberg, a sudden ounce of defiance sprung in you and you turned back to the Duke, pulling your arm from Heisenberg’s grasp.

“Oh, and Duke,” you said, “if you hear of any search parties in the area, please let them know a survivor is here at the factory…”

“No!” Heisenberg interjected, “don’t say anything!  Y/N will be just fine here!”  He grabbed your arm again in a sudden jerk and marched quickly to the double doors of the factory, practically dragging you behind him.

Once the two of you walked over the threshold and into the building, he pushed you forward with a loud grunt.  You shrieked and fell to your hands and knees as he dropped the sack and quickly closed one door and then the other.  Once he secured the lock, Heisenberg grabbed you by the nape of your neck, pulled you to your feet, and whirled you around so that your back was pressed against the nearest wall.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull??” Heisenberg growled, his right hand wrapped around your throat.  He pressed his left hand against the wall next to your head, keeping you from escaping.  “First off, the Duke will not help you.  He stays neutral in all things pertaining to this village.  And second, if you wander away from me again, I’ll make sure you permanently stay shackled to my bed for the rest of your days!”

“Fuck you!” you spat at him, hitting at his arm and trying to wriggle away.  His fingers tightened on your neck.  You tried to kick him, but you weren’t quick enough.  Heisenberg pushed your legs apart with his feet and thrust his hips against yours, keeping your body pressed against the wall.  Your hands wrapped around his arm as you struggled to push it from your neck.

You looked up into his face, both of you breathing heavily.  You could barely see his eyes through the sunglasses.  He tilted your head up.  The softest touch of the tip of your nose touched his nose.  Heat grew between your legs at the feel of his groin against yours.  Your eyes widened when you felt the growing hardness of his cock through his pants.  Without thinking, you slowly tilted your hips upwards.

With a soft groan, Heisenberg rolled his hips against yours.  A quiet whimper escaped your lips and you instantly regretted it.  You watched as the ends of his mouth curled upwards in a knowing smile.  God damn him, you thought.  Your fingers continued to tighten on his arms.  Heat flushed your cheeks and your pupils grew.  Your hips tilted upwards once again.

Just as Heisenberg was able to press his lips to yours, you snapped out of it and brought your right hand across his cheek.  He barely registered the hit as he slowly took his hand off your neck and took a step back.

“Get your ass back to my quarters,” Heisenberg growled.

[cryinginthebackseat]

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

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Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.  

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

                                                         fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel​ @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass​ @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

[mournersrp]

𝐍𝐎  𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐒,  𝐍𝐎  𝐅𝐔𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐒.  once  again,  thank  you  all  so  much  for  the  dedication  put  into  applying  here  at  mourners  ;  it’s  truly  been  a  pleasure  reading  all  of  your  applications  &.  i’m  tremendously  grateful.  turning  down  an  application  is  never  an  easy  process,  and  there  were  many  instances  in  which  i  wished  i  could  permit  a  duplicate  upon  the  dash.  with  that  said,  i’m  looking  forward  to  both  speaking  &.  plotting  with  each  of  you  tomorrow  (  bear  with  me  while  all  pages  &.  skeletons  are  properly  updated  )  —  welcome  to  mourners  !  please  review  our  checklist  and  report  to  the  barrel  boss  within  the  next  twenty - four  hours.

𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐉  𝐆𝐇𝐀𝐅𝐀

VENLI  !  choosing  an  inej  for  mourners  was  ...  a  feat,  as  each  applicant  displayed  an  exquisite  version  of  our  wraith,  but  what  swayed  me  in  the  end  was  the  balance  you  kept  between  who  she  was  while  with  the  dregs  &.  who  she  became  without  them.  the  details  surrounding  intricacies  of  her  newfound  crewmen  (  &.  her  family  post  their  reunion  )  in  which  helped  shape  the  woman  outside  the  barrel  were  lovely  to  read  (  her  thoughts  on  rilar,  in  particular,  were  both  authentic  &.  entertaining  )  ;  i  could  picture  the  scenes  in  earnest.  i  also  loved  the  mention  of  how  she  came  to  understand  kaz’s  own  vices  after  having  to  face  her  own  whilst  sailing  the  seas.  thank  you  for  taking  the  time  to  apply  —  i  look  forward  to  seeing  your  inej  in  play.

𝐉𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑  𝐅𝐀𝐇𝐄𝐘

NOAH  !  the  bit  about  kaz  disproving  jesper’s  exaggerated  stories  had  me  rolling,  and  your  headcanon  regarding  jesper  being  an  absolute  catastrophe  in  the  kitchen  (  gordon  ramsay  is  unamused  )  ?  you  wrote  it  best:  ‘  tall,  lanky,  restless,  distracted,  easily  bored.  ’.  incredibly  handsome,  but  certainly  cannot  focus  on  a  single  recipe.  on  a  serious  note  (  despite  the  consistent,  comical  little  tidbits  which  made  your  application  such  a  pleasure  to  read  ),  the  grasp  upon  his  character  you  presented  between  struggling  with  guilt  &.  penitence  was  flawless,  and  something  i  look  forward  to  seeing  explored  on  the  dash.

𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐀𝐒  𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐀𝐑

ABBY  !  there  was  so  much  i  loved  about  your  matthias,  but  i  especially  appreciated  how  you  incorporated  the  other  skeletons  into  interpersonal  plot  points  for  him.  the  attention  to  detail  within  matthias’  headspace  when  ruminating  over  them  was  absolutely  believable  to  his  character.  the  vast  detail  you  supplied  for  each  personality  trait  &.  headcanons  were  so  indicative  of  who  he’s  been  and  who  he’s  become  (  or  trying  so  desperately  to  be  ).  i’m  interested  to  see  his  reactions  to  henrik’s  next  moves  just  as  much  as  you,  and  where  our  drüskelle  will  stand,  then.  oh,  and  abby,  what’s  the  first  rule  about  fight  club  ?

𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐀  𝐙𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐊

EMILY  !  ah,  yes,  nina,  our  waffle  queen.  her  past,  present  &.  sought  future  were  crafted  so  wonderfully  within  your  application  ;  i  particularly  loved  your  headcanon  dealing  with  her  time  as  a  heartrender,  where  nina  stubbornly  wished  to  understand  the  small  science  whilst  her  peers  were  occupied  with  morozov’s  manuals.  it  was  a  pleasure  to  be  able  to  read  her  thoughts  on  the  grisha  she’s  become,  the  label  of  corpsewitch  adhered  to  her,  the  burden  it  has  also  set  upon  her  as  ‘  self - appointed  grisha  guardian  angel  ’.  &.  i  do  hope  you  get  to  share  those  plot  ideas  with  some  of  our  fellow  grisha,  as  your  points  revolving  around  them  were  so  well  thought  out  and  executed.  also,  you’re  right  —  kaz  gets  way  too  into  the  costumes.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍

HARPER  !  i’m  ready  to  interact  with  felix.  it’s  no  wonder  kaz  made  him  a  deal  —  tragedy  maketh  man,  and  if  there’s  one  thing  dirtyhands  can  comprehend,  it’s  being  dealt  a  bad  hand.  i  love  the  idea  in  which  you  set  forth  that  he’s  lived  his  life  in  such  silence,  that  there  are  those  who  have  known  him  for  several  years,  but  haven’t  heard  even  a  whisper  slip  from  his  tongue.  the  way  you  transitioned  felix’s  headcanons  into  the  pivotal  moments  of  his  life  made  it  a  blast  to  read  through  (  especially  during  the  deal,  where  we  got  a  good  look  at  the  first  devil  in  his  life  —  do  old  habits  die  hard,  in  the  end  ?  ).  once  again,  welcome  to  mourners  (  i  foresee  much  plotting  in  our  future  ).

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑

ALEX  !  we  do  love  a  good  destroyer,  and  marlaina  is  no  exception.  she  knows  her  power  &.  is  not  afraid  to  unleash  it,  a  trait  that,  while  prized  within  the  dregs,  can  also  become  a  nightmare.  after  all,  control  &.  patience  can  be  key.  the  idea  that  she’s  particularly  skilled  at  cards  (  as  well  as  banned  from  most  gambling  halls  )  was  a  fresh  addition  to  the  skeleton,  as  i  quite  love  the  idea  of  our  hellish  heartrender  pushing  her  luck  at  the  crow’s  club  (  when  has  that  ever  ended  badly  ?  ).  i  agree  it’d  be  an  interesting  concept  to  see  her  have  another  grisha  under  her  wing,  especially  when  she  herself  is  always  so  keen  to  detonate  —  her  desertion,  however,  will  surely  catch  up  with  her  soon.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑

MARGOT  !  you  have  spun  the  impostor  into  an  entirely  new  medium,  and  produced  a  character  that  went  beyond  the  skeleton  provided.  ‘  prison  changed  you.  for  the  better.  you’re  more  fun  now,  sociable  and  loud,  like  a  cannon,  truly.  so  loud  everybody  jumps  when  you  burst  into  a  room.  ’  one  of  the  first  few  lines  in  your  application,  but  what  immediately  captured  my  attention  and  had  me  buckle  in.  i  never  considered  that  the  target  in  which  damned  the  impostor  to  the  depths  of  hellgate  could  be  family,  but  now  i’d  not  have  it  any  other  way.  aris  is  a  world  class  actor  &.  i  cannot  wait  to  help  you  set  the  stage  (  &.  maybe  watch  it  burn  in  the  process  ).

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐓

HENRY  JUDE  !  i  wasn’t  sure  if  there’d  be  a  lieutenant  at  the  start  of  mourners,  so  i  was  absolutely  thrilled  when  receiving  your  application.  an  important  player  with  a  plethora  of  potential  directions  in  which  they  could  shift,  and  i  can’t  wait  to  see  if  jozef's  includes  the  checkmate.  the  craftsmanship  in  your  design  for  him  was  extraordinarily  executed  and  quite  poetic  ;  he  was  absolute  pleasure  to  study.  i  look  forward  to  plotting  with  you  as  well  as  discussing  the  similarities  between  our  broken,  disastrous  muses  (  also,  i  can’t  believe  we’re  both  aleksander  morozova  apologists  ).

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐑

ARACELIA  !  i’m  in  love  with  anya.  you  put  so  much  adoration  into  her  creation  &.  i  cannot  wait  to  see  it  bleed  onto  the  dash  (  you  make  it  so  hard  to  loathe  a  traitor  ).  her  personality  is  so  believably  balanced,  and  more  than  what  my  own  ideas  surrounding  the  role  initially  included.  the  birth  of  a  monster,  the  birth  of  a  tailor  &.  the  birth  of  an  illusionist  were  impeccably  composed  stories  which  sewed  her  into  existence.  you’ve  forged  a  character  who  is  the  definition  of  ‘  so  much  more  than  meets  the  eye  ’  &.  i  am  thrilled  to  have  gotten  the  first  look  at  our  scarab  queen.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐃

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐑  |  EM  !  i  absolutely  love  the  concept  of  aleni  (  as  kaz  would  say:  she’s  a  particularly  good  investment  ).  with  grisha  within  his  crew,  what  better  for  an  amplifier  to  do  ?  i  was  wondering  if  i’d  see  an  application  involving  ketterdam’s  university,  and  was  immediately  thrilled  when  seeing  it  pulled  into  aleni’s  history.  the  idea  that  she  loved  ketterdam  in  any  capacity  is  not  something  you  tend  to  hear  (  it  died  quickly,  of  course  ),  which  was  a  unique  mention  within  your  wildcard.  &.  we  will  definitely  have  to  discuss  aleni  mistakenly  having  amplified  the  inferni  at  fifth  harbour,  as  i  believe  you’ve  proposed  an  excellent  idea.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑  //  𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀  𝐒𝐐𝐔𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑  |  IRIS  !  to  be  introduced  to  valdis  by  way  of  your  character  summary  was  a  treat.  i  absolutely  loved  the  way  it  was  written,  and  immediately  knew  why  she’d  made  it  into  the  dregs  (  truly  obsessed  with  her  being  the  daughter  of  a  pirate  captain  ).  though  she  managed  to  escape  her  original  work  with  braam,  it  seems,  for  a  time,  she  had  let  history  repeat  itself,  but  with  perhaps  a  better  boss  than  originally  at  the  helm.  &.  with  a  new  debt  paid,  how  fast  till  old  loyalty  dies  ?  

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑  //  𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀  𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑  |  REE  !  it’s  all  in  the  bones.  a  fjerdan  fleeing  for  discovering  themselves  grisha  is  always  something  i’ve  wanted  to  see  explored,  and  now  i  have  a  front  row  seat.  to  be  ostracized  by  their  own  &.  then  by  a  place  of  presumed  sanctuary  can  induce  a  particular  psychosis  within  the  most  stable  of  individuals,  and  we  do  love  sigyn’s  particular  brand  of  crazy.  you’ve  provided  an  entirely  fresh  take  on  what  is  known  of  a  grisha  healer,  and  how  such  gifts  may  be  construed  when  mixed  with  the  beliefs  of  fjerda.  thank  you  for  delivering  such  a  spellbinding  character  to  mourners.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓  𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋  |  ALI  !  with  a  vast  cast  of  varying  characters,  i  was  thrilled  to  see  that  senna  originally  came  from  wealth  (  it’s  a  different  path  to  weave,  one  that  usually  draws  more  enemies  than  friends  ).  your  application  was  so  appreciated,  providing  a  role  in  which  started  from  the  top  &.  careened  to  the  bottom  (  i  do  hope  to  see  senna  &.  wylan  swap  stories,  especially  where  senna  has  made  strides  to  escape  the  tread  of  their  father  ).  you  call  it  their  grand  adventure,  and  in  all  its  sinister  glory,  it’s  only  just  begun.  welcome  to  mourners  ;  let’s  plot  some  blackmail.

𝐓𝐇𝐄  𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐑  //  𝐆𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐀  𝐓𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑  |  NINA  !  both  applications  for  our  resident  tidemaker  spun  tales  which  were  a  pleasure  to  traverse,  and  i  would  have  loved  to  have  both  turning  the  tides  for  the  dregs.  manu  belongs  in  a  novel,  with  all  the  devotion  you’ve  clearly  put  into  him.  &.  i  am  ecstatic  to  at  least  have  him  for  mourners’  chapters.  when  you  wrote  ‘  for  the  wanderer  was  nothing  if  not  a  mismatched  family,  made  with  kerch  purple,  fjerdan  ice,  kaelish  fire,  zemeni  courage  and  ravkan  boldness  ’,  i  found  myself  able  to  refer  to  it  whilst  reading  through  the  life  authored  for  him,  able  to  pick  out  these  particular  qualities  on  his  way  to  the  barrel.  &.  hopefully,  he’ll  reach  the  surface  soon.

[leonawriter]

Dazai, Surprises, and things Not Going To Plan

Aight I’m gonna do this. I’ve seen a lot of times people go “I think Dazai should fail at least once and know what it’s like to not have his plans succeed, because he’s way to headstrong and cocky about all that.”

Thing is, there’s two major points against this hot take:

One - what we can see from looking at the series as a whole, is that Dazai has had plans fall through more times than we’re probably aware of. This includes times when he has been able to fix the plan to make the situation succeed anyway, as well as times when he has failed entirely and completely.

Two - what we know of Dazai as a character, both by looking at the series as evidence, as well as looking at things Asagiri has said, and things that come up in the light novels. As well, an important source is the original, real life author “Dazai Osamu” himself, as the BSD character was based on him.

Both of these points feed into each other.

Okay. So. With that in mind, I’m going to start off with an easy one, which appeared first in manga chapter 24. And yes, for most main series things, I will be referring to the manga rather than the anime, since to me the manga is a more accurate portrayal of the characters and events.

[img: Atsushi saying “Oh no... then, is there any way to turn the tide, Dazai-san?” and Dazai responding, his mouth full, with three fingers up, “Sure, about this many, I think.”]

[img: Atsushi saying  “Three?” while looking shocked. Dazai says “No? I meant three hundred.” while having a peculiar expression caught somewhere between very intense and staring into the middle distance. Atsushi’s reaction to this is very shocked, exclaiming “Three hundred?!” inset into the same panel.]

See, what I mean by sharing this specifically is that Dazai doesn’t just predict one scenario and assume things are all going to go according to plan. He looks at the information available to him and thinks something along the lines of “what are the many various things that people might do, in these sorts of situations? Knowing these people as I do, what should I expect of them?” and because he’s just so damn smart, and people tend to act in specific types of patterns, he’s usually correct and one of of his plans works, whether that’s plan number one or plan number two hundred and thirteen.

This tells us several things, and not just that Dazai is smart.

It tells us that Dazai plans for all possibilities, accepting that things are going to happen that would be out of his control.

It tells us that Dazai isn’t a perfect plan-and-manipulate kind of person; if he was, he’d only have one plan and people would fall in line with it.

It also suggests something else - something we see both in the real life author, and in various other times during the series. It suggests that Dazai has anxiety issues, because “plans out the same thing over and over and over again” isn’t  the sort of thing that someone who’s confident in their planning skills would do. It’s something you tend to do more if you’re anxious (and/or bored, which Dazai is too).

We can see him having anxiety issues easily when we know that the real life Dazai’s life was full of references to this. I also have read about the man and read some of his works and as an autistic/adhd individual who was undiagnosed for over twenty years, a lot of the way he talks about himself feels familiar, so yes, I do see him as having that to contend with as well, and find it easy to believe that BSD Dazai is at the very least ADHD. The specifics are for individual research or another post, but in short: rejection sensitive dysphoria, hyperfocus or no focus, sense of time is out of whack, inability to regulate serotonin (the happy stuff). A lot of that results in - especially due to how society treats neurodivergent people - anxiety and depression. Given I see both Dazai as having the same thing at least in this case? And every time I’ve read a new thing about ADHD I go “oh, hey, that’s both me and (BSD) Dazai”? I’d say it’s relevant.

This neatly leads in to the next point-

Dazai has had plans completely fail in the past. In fact, one could say that they fuzzed up. (See what I did there?)

Dazai has also been surprised and undermined and people have acted against his assumptions since he was fifteen or even younger than that. He also hasn’t always had this in any of his plans.

When in the start of the Fifteen novel, he asks Mori why he hadn’t just killed him when he had the chance, and why he doesn’t still do so. Why he won’t just let Dazai commit suicide. As we see Dazai through Mori, we know that the reason for this is because Mori is a lonely person, and currently at this point feels that the only person who is fully in the same boat as him and who can understand him is Dazai - but for Dazai himself, this is something he hadn’t planned for! It doesn’t make sense to him!

We also see him surprised again later in the same storyline, when Chuuya says “Arahabaki is me.” Dazai had anticipated many things, but that was not one of them.

Likewise, when he was sixteen, I believe that when Dazai went out to get captured on purpose, he anticipated that he would be - but not exactly how. In the prologue to the movie we see him being shocked at the extent of the damage used to cover up what would end up being his capture.

And in the Dark Era novel... there are things that he anticipates (Ango’s status as a spy, from the moment he saw the wet/not wet things in his bag), and things he really doesn’t.

At this point, I find it important to point out that whenever I think of that series of events, a key moment that was changed in the anime was how in the novel, Dazai was the one who put Odasaku’s kids in the mafia’s protection. Think about that. Dazai trusted that his authority as an executive would be enough to ensure that these children would be safe. He never once predicted that Mori might sell them out in order to use Odasaku. I still believe that it wasn’t just the way Mori used Odasaku himself as a chess piece, but also broke Dazai’s trust, that caused him to hate Mori in the present day. 

Because if you think about it in these terms, and this is very relevant to the topic here, Dazai would see things in this way: “If I had protected those kids better, or handed them over to someone who had no connections to the mafia at all, then they might still be alive, and so might Odasaku.”

Thought about that way, the idea of “Dazai needs one of his plans to fail in order to be made humble/to be able to see himself as part of the group” seems unnecessary and actually quite cruel. 

He HAS had his plans fail in the past. Plans failing means people close to him dying, and him being the one responsible, because he orchestrated at least some of the events that led to their death/s.

Dazai’s reaction to his plans failing and to losing someone back then was to lose his cool and to admit that he doesn’t know what to do. Perhaps it’s necessary to point out that he may have grown older by four years, but he most likely doesn't know what he’s doing now all that much more than he did at eighteen. It’s by going through the events of canon that he starts to understand himself more.

Going back to the canon references in the manga, the continuation of that scene above has Dazai accept that things always change, and don’t stay static;

“Bu then, Atsushi-kun, the situation in war is never fixed. Even a sure-win strategy could turn into a bad move due to a slight change in situation. That’s why having intelligence is so important.”

So, as said before - he takes what he knows, compiles the data, and comes out with scenarios that could work, but doesn’t stake everything on any one plan. 

In short, one of my ideas is that one of his superpowers is being able to bluff and make things up on the fly, but make people believe he wanted things to go that way all along.

Following on from that, we have a couple more moments in the following chapters that also have “shocked Dazai, experiencing something unexpected.”

This is right when Higuchi is reciting Mori’s offer of allowing him back to his old position. He had previously just stated that there were “too many possibilities” for what Mori might want to say to him - none were the suggestion of taking him back.

I’ve seen a few fics and meta go with the idea that Dazai truly doesn’t care which side he’s on, aside from the promise he made to his friend. That nothing is keeping him from “going back.”

I don’t think that’s true, because just looking at this face, where he’s had no opportunity to prepare himself for what is about to be said, Dazai looks distressed. 

The mafia was where he spent the worst years of his life - and I’m not saying it’s the worst place for absolutely everyone (hot take: I feel like it’s the best place for some people, like Chuuya) but that it’s where Dazai was at his worst. Even if they had tried - and been able - to help him more, it’s likely that having moved on from that point, certain things from his past might even be triggers for flashbacks and bad depressive periods, and periods of self-doubt. This would also explain why he would have actively avoided people who he would otherwise have had nothing against.

He goes from this, to then being told that Q - who is an entire flashback in himself - is released.

[img: Dazai’s shocked face with Higuchi stating “The Boss.. has released “Q” from [their] confinement.”]

Tellingly, Dazai’s immediate response after this? Is to say “As if he’d do that.” He disbelieves what he’s just heard because it makes no sense to him. It doesn’t seem like the logical kind of thing that the Mori he knew would do.

This is important for the entire point of this post - the entire several chapters here, the episode, the conversation Dazai has here. It’s full of him explaining himself, how he works, and being surprised. Of people doing things that Dazai doesn’t expect. Things happening that take his 300 plans he’d had and make him later go for one of the riskier ones.

Because he then, after being assured that this is no joke, explains what Q is capable of. And only once he says that since they’ve been warned, they [the ADA] can plan accordingly, does he realise that when they’d said they’d come “for his protection” that this is what they meant. That he was already too late.

Again: think on that. 

Another time that Dazai’s plans have been interrupted with something so entirely dangerous and unexpected, and he nearly loses people again. 

I’m not joking - re-read or re-watch these scenes, and you’ll see that Dazai absolutely freaks out, going wide-eyed and running straight back to where Atsushi is, and I think I’m right in saying that it’s one of the few times in the entire series that we actually see him shout.

[img: Dazai, panicked and shouting for Atsushi, saying “Stop it, Atsushi-kun! Look carefully!”, the actual speech bubble cropped out.]

If Dazai hadn’t realised that Q was already there by that point, then the girls might have died. Atsushi would have been lost to his own despair of having killed his new coworkers, and feeling like he would never be forgiven, could never be. 

We see how he places so much faith and potential on Atsushi, no just seeing him in a way as an extension of some of what Odasaku told him, but also for how Atsushi might help and change Akutagawa, who he had been unable to (another person’s meta points out the whys of this quite well). Losing Atsushi like this would have been heartbreaking for him, even if he didn’t die.

For someone who can make three hundred different plans with what information is available at least, coming that close to losing someone who is important to him is almost as bad as having lost them. The scenarios might as well go through his head when he’s trying to sleep, telling him if you hadn’t been there in time, then he would be dead. Or worse.

Another point to make her in relation to this is actually not coming from Dazai himself, but someone who I think is meant as a foil to him, in terms of intelligence and how they deal with it: Ranpo.

In chapter 56, which hasn’t been animated yet, in order to catch the criminal Ranpo uses underhanded tactics, as his own people (for him, his family) are at stake. In one page he states; 

“I knew it from the start. A regular person can’t beat a special ability. Nevertheless, I will defeat you. Because - my comrades think I’m invincible.”

We then see him go from being surrounded by his friends and family in the ADA, to being alone, with the others being silhouettes behind him, out of focus.

I firmly believe that this is the same - or similar enough - for Dazai. He is, outside of his ability nullification, using his intelligence in the same way Ranpo is. He won’t let himself lose to anyone, not because he’s always so powerful that it’s easy for him, but because he can’t afford to.

The end of the chapter with him facing off against Q after Q had affected Atsushi has Dazai say “even I can’t afford not to play dirty” and in dealing with this particular criminal, Ranpo himself says something very similar, that he will let himself become like a demon if it means protecting the Agency. In this, I think that they’re very similar people.

In short: 

Dazai needs to be brought closer to the people he should be able to trust (the ADA, Chuuya, Ango) by allowing himself to believe that they won’t judge him. Every time that he relies on someone else is a step forward with this. Every time his plans fail, he falls further into anxiety and the fear of being responsible for things going wrong, and people placing the blame on him, as he was the one to make the plans in the first place.

Perhaps to other people it might seem strange to see me say this, but I believe that Dazai needs to be weaned into the idea that people appreciate his presence before he can allow himself to fail in small ways. He needs to be able to accept that people like him before he can see failure as anything other than potentially catastrophic. And he needs to accept that people won’t blame him. Which will take a long time - both because of his past, and because if I’m right and he’s got ADHD, then the rejection sensitive dysphoria is always going to be there.

[morbid-mary]

What a Furry Ride

Chapter 13 Set in Episode 9 (last chapter in this episode)

Authors Note(PLEASE READ): Hi everyone! I know it’s been a really long 9 months hiatus...*nervous laughter* I’ve written this chapter about 8 times over, finishing it, hating it, getting distracted from the plot entirely, then forgetting all about the fic for a while- IT’S BEEN CRAZY. But, I’ve finally finished it. It’s not very long, but it’s right along with the plot and I am finally happy with it. I’ve spent 9 months HATING it! I refuse to post something I am not happy with because that just doesn’t make sense to me at all. I hope you guys enjoy it. I can’t wait to start writing chapter 14 which will start in episode 10! We’re getting closer to the finale! I love y’all so much. Thanks for sticking with me this long! MWAH 💖

Warnings: Nothing I can really think of...

~~~~

Derek stands on the front porch of what used to be his home. He leans against the post, listening to Dani’s heartbeat pounding from down in the basement she’s trapped inside. He hates that she’s caught in the middle of all this. He couldn’t help but think that if he had just stayed away, she wouldn’t be in this mess. She could be sitting in the bleachers with her family right now, living a happier, normal life, not knowing him at all.

Derek remembers the moment when he first saw Dani. It was the night of Scott’s first full moon, at the party Lydia Martin hosted. Half the school was there that night. Derek was there to keep an eye on Scott, but this overwhelming sweet scent invaded his senses, distorting his focus. He curses under his breath as he brings his fist to his nose and that’s when he saw her, the source of the sweet aroma. Perched on top of a table by the pool, her legs crossed, and her posture relaxed, leaning back on her left hand that was planted on the table and a drink in her right hand. The light reflecting from the pool danced across her face and her body giving her this soft glow.  Derek’s stomach twists into a pretzel, enthralled by the young woman sitting on top of that table, her sweet scent sinking into him.

Derek remembers the last time he saw Dani. Peter was pushing her into the back seat of his nurse’s car. He remembers how deafeningly silent that drive was. How the scent of her fear and anxiety filled the cabin of the small vehicle. The guilt twisting in his stomach was almost unbearable. Derek quietly reached back, between the door and the seat, brushing his fingers against her calf. He felt her silently grip his hand with both of her own. He immediately noticed how badly she was trembling. He brushed his thumb back and forth against her trembling fingers, trying desperately to give her some form of comfort before they reached their destination.

Derek returns to the present, staring out into the trees surrounding the house with a vacant expression. Derek inhales deeply, trying to push down every emotion and every feeling he has. He’s done it before and he can do it well, but it’s always hard on him.  If he’s going to do this, if Dani is going to survive, if Scott and Stiles are going to pull through, he must be self-controlled. All their lives depend on it, but his own life isn’t his priority. Not when it means keeping them safe. 

Peter steps out onto the porch, inhaling the chilly, February night air. It was as if the world and everything in it was right as rain to him. It made Derek sick. “I think it’s time to pay Scott a visit,” Peter says, wearing a soft smile.

~~🌻~~

Back at Beacon Hills high school, the energy is high and almost electric. The bleachers are jam packed with screaming and cheering family members and friends. The Cyclones are all jumping, whooping, hollering, congratulating one another and shouting, “State!” over and over again. They won the game. Beacon Hill’s high school’s very own lacrosse team is going to the state championships.

Scott pulls his helmet on and frantically looks around for his best friend he hasn’t seen the entire night. “Stiles!” He calls. The Cyclones come barreling off the field and into the locker room, cheering and shouting. Scott pushes his way through his teammates calling for Stiles. “Stiles. Stiles! Has anybody seen Stiles?” Scott whirls around, finding himself standing face to face with his ex-girlfriend. Scott’s mouth falls open slightly, his stomach twisting into an even tighter knot at the sight of her adorable, nervous smile.

“Uh- you were pretty awesome out there,” Allison says, nodding with a sweet smile.

“Thanks, you too,” Scott answers, immediately wanting to punch himself in the face. “I mean, that’s not what I meant-”

“No, no, I- um, did some pretty awesome cheering.” Allison smiles at Scott again. “You can thank me.”

“You did?”

“Totally. I went from, ‘Go, team, go,’ to ‘Defense, defense,’ without a breath.” Allison nods affirming what she said. “I brought my A game.”

One of Scott’s teammates interrupts them, excitedly stepping between them shouting, “State, state, state, state, state, state…” He fades off registering the look on Scott’s face that just said, ‘Drop dead, moron,’ and quickly scurries away cheering with his more enthusiastic teammates. Scott shakes his head and looks forward, finding Allison no longer where she was just a moment ago. He frowns, looking over to the doors, seeing Mr. Argent guiding his daughter back outside.

“Isn’t that just heartbreaking,” Jackson laughs mockingly, walking up to Scott. “Gosh, I bet it causes a lot of sleepless nights.” Jackson continues, “You know what though, McCall? I actually sympathize, which is why I want to make this mutually beneficial. You give me what I want, and I’ll help you get her back.”

“What?” Scott asks in disbelief.

“Well, three days makes it just in time for the Winter Formal. Uh, think about you taking her instead of me. And also think about all the things you’re able to do to get her out of some tight little dress by the end of the night. See how this could work out for everybody?”

Scott glares at Jackson as he continues.

“Three days, McCall.” Jackson whispers, patting Scott’s cheek. “Have fun,” He finishes, disappearing into the locker room.

~~🌻~~

Mr. Argent guides Allison back to the busy bleachers, his mind somewhere else entirely. He barely remembers the game even though he sat through the entire thing. He barely remembers the drive down to the school from his house if he’s honest with himself. His mind has been preoccupied on and off throughout the day about the same thing. He’s worried about Dani.

He worries about her in general with her becoming friends with Derek Hale and encountering the alpha at the school and so on. She’s caught up in a very dangerous game whether she knows it or not and he doesn’t like it. But ever since this afternoon when they talked in the backseat of his car, he’s become even more worried for her. She’s been through a lot and he hates that someone else has walked out on her now.

He cares about Dani. She’s like an older sister to Allison. He catches himself treating her like his own daughter from time to time. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. She’s important to Allison therefore she is important to him and he’s become rather fond of her. She’s been through a lot and he hopes that she knows his home is a safe place for her.

“Dad!”

Chris is jolted from his thoughts by the sharp call for him by his daughter.

“You didn’t hear anything I just said, did you?” Allison asks.

“No, I’m sorry,” He admits with a sigh.

“You’ve been quiet all night. Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine, sweetheart. Here-” Chris digs the car keys out of his pocket and hands them to Allison. “How about you go start the car and get it warmed up.”

“Sure, okay.”

Chris smiles at his daughter as she heads off to the parking lot. He turns his attention to the busy bleachers, scanning all the enthusiastic faces for Dani. She’s come to every lacrosse game that he could tell, so she should be here. He just wants to check on her to see how she’s doing after this afternoon.

Chris spots Dani’s mother and makes his way through the crowd.

“Hello Ms. McCall,” He greets as he reaches her, noticing the various family members taking up most of an entire section of bleachers.

“Mr. Argent, hi.” Melissa stands to greet him properly. “Oh, this is my sister Maria.” Melissa gestures to the woman standing next to her. “Maria this is Christopher Argent, Allison’s father.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Maria,” Chris says with a smile, shaking Maria’s hand.

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Maria replies, returning his smile.

“Is your daughter with you? I was hoping I could talk to her.” Chris asks, turning to Melissa.

“You’re looking for her too?”

Chris frowns. “She’s not here?”

“We don’t know,” Maria says letting out a sigh.

“She’s going to be in serious trouble when I find her,” Melissa says. “I told her to be here.”

Chris lets out a sigh as well, pressing his lips into a thin line. “Probably somewhere with Derek Hale. Never mind that the police are after him.”

“Wait, Dani is hanging out with Derek Hale?” Melissa asks.

“You didn’t know they were friends…” Chris says carefully.

“No, I had no idea she was hanging around him again,” Melissa says. “I didn’t even know he was in town again until I saw his name plastered all over the news.”

“I thought it was mostly his sister she used to hang out with,” Maria says.

“Wait a minute…” Chris pauses.

The sister’s share a glance before turning to Mr. Argent.

“They’ve known each other longer?”

~~🌻~~

Most of the team stayed to shower and clean up before heading out to a celebratory team dinner at Goldie’s Diner. A lot the boys were dressed and packing their bags, getting ready to leave, when Scott walks over to his rack, a towel tied around his waist. He was one of the last of his teammates to shower.

“By the way, McCall… Apology accepted,” Danny calls from the opposite set of racks.

“I didn’t apologize,” Scott frowns.

“Every time you got the ball tonight, you passed it to me,” Danny explains, grabbing a clean shirt from his bag.

“Every time I passed the ball to you, you scored,” Scott chuckles.

Danny pulls the shirt on and slings his bookbag over his shoulder. “Apology accepted,” he says.

Danny walks out, leaving Scott alone in the locker room. Scott turns back around, grabbing his deodorant canister, shaking it up. The lights suddenly cut off and Scott pauses, frowning in confusion. Scott puts his deodorant back on the shelf of his rack and looks around the room. “Danny?” he calls. Scott is met with silence as he steps around the set of racks. Danny must’ve absentmindedly cut them off on his way out by accident.

Scott walks over to the wall and flips up the two light switches. The locker room remains dark. Scott looks up at the lights, flipping the switches a few more times; his curiosity growing with the slight touch of concern crawling around his stomach. Scott’s eye catches a ball rolling across the floor from the showers and bumping into a set of lockers with a tap. His curiosity and streak of concern growing to more mild levels as he walks toward the showers. Scotts stops in front of the ball, bending to pick it up. He frowns, turning to the side and he jumps, finding Derek standing in the middle of the open showers.

“Thank God! Where the hell have you been? Do you have any idea what’s been going on?” Scott asks, walking towards Derek.

Derek silently averts his gaze from Scott to someone standing behind him. Scott frowns following his gaze and it meets a man, stepping out behind him. He looks older than Derek, mid to late thirties maybe, brown hear, leather jacket, button down shirt, and he’s holding a lacrosse stick. It’s Peter Hale.

“I really don’t get lacrosse,” Peter confesses.

Scott stares at Peter in shock realizing that he is the alpha , “It was you…”

“When I was in high school, we played basketball.” Peter continues, glancing over at Scott. “Now there’s a real sport.”

Scott, terribly in shock, looks back at Derek for some kind of explanation as Peter continues.

“Still, I read somewhere that lacrosse comes from Native American tribes and that they played it to resolve conflict.” Peter raises the lacrosse stick, setting the bar of it on his shoulder, glancing off to the side in thought. “Do I have that right?” He whispers to himself, shaking off the thought. He lowers the stick, spinning it in his hands as he observes the net for a moment before setting the stick to the side, focusing on Scott again.

“I have a little conflict of my own to resolve, Scott. But I need your help to do it.”

“I’m not helping you kill people.” Scott says in an even, firm tone.

Peter frowns, “Well I don’t want to kill all of them. Just the responsible ones. And I that doesn’t have to include…” Peter trails off, trying to remember the name. He looks to Derek.

“Allison,” Derek finishes for him.

Scott slowly turns to face Derek. “You’re on his side?” He asks.

Derek breaks Scott’s gaze, his expression stony and vacant as he silently reminds himself that Daniella’s life is on the line if he doesn’t play his part just right.

“Are you forgetting the part where he killed your sister?” Scott adds.

“It was a mistake,” Derek responds coolly.

“What?!” Scott stares at Derek like he’s out of his mind.

“It happens.”

“Scott…” Peter starts, grabbing the teenager’s attention. “I think you’re getting the wrong impression of us. We really just want to help you reach your full potential.”

“By killing my friends,” Scott says, reading between the lines.

“Sometimes the people closest to you… can be the ones holding you back the most.”

“If they’re holding me back from becoming a psychotic nut job like you… I’m okay with that.”

Peter begins to step closer to Scott. Becoming nervous, Scott shifts on his feet, looking back at Derek for any shred or assurance.

“Maybe you could try and see things…” Peter trails off, holding up his right hand, his claws coming out. “From my perspective,” Peter finishes.

~~🌻~~

Stiles wakes up on a cold hard tile floor, his head throbbing. He groans bringing his hands to his face as he becomes more and more conscious. He sits up with a groan, squinting at his dim surroundings, quickly remember that he’s in the hospital morgue.

“Right…”

Stiles grips the overturned metal examination table lying next to him and pushes himself to his feet. The last thing he remembers is sitting on top of the metal table pushed against the door watching Peter Hale rush he door. Next thing he remembers is waking up just a few moments ago.

“Alpha…Dani and Derek…no, no, no-”

Stiles turns to where he last saw Derek and Dani sitting in the floor against the opposite wall. They’re gone. Did the Alpha take them? What happened here? Stiles swallows the lump forming in his throat. He has to get out of the hospital. He has to find Scott.

“The game.”

~~🌻~~

Stiles tares into the school parking lot, tires screeching as he turns into an empty parking spot. He jumps out of the Jeep and runs as fast as he can to the back entrance of the locker rooms. Stiles yanks the doors open rushing down the hallway and turning into the locker rooms, finding Scott in a towel, sitting on a bench with his elbows resting on his knees.

“Dude, we got a huge problem!” He breathes out, winded from all his running.

“You have no idea…” Scott replies with a far off look in his eyes.

Stiles puts his hands on his head struggling to catch his breath. “Something tells me you already know.”

“That Peter Hale is the alpha and Derek is on his side now? Yeah! I figured it out already!”

“Derek’s what?”

“He’s taken the alpha’s side, Stiles! We’re screwed!”

Scott drops his head into his hands. He can’t handle anything else right now. The alpha has been revealed, Derek’s switched sides, Jackson’s breathing down his neck about the bite, there is no way this situation could get worse.

“Scott…” Stiles trails off, dropping his hands to his hips.

Scott lifts his head. “What?”

Stiles shifts his weight from foot to foot. There’s no easy way to tell him this. It’s going to crush him. Hell, the thought is crushing him too. The idea of that psychotic bastard having Dani makes his curl up inside a whole and pretend the world doesn’t exist. Dani is like an older sister to Stiles. He can’t handle the thought of her getting hurt. She means too much to him. She’s his family. Maybe that’s why Derek chose the alpha’s side. Maybe it wasn’t up to him. Maybe, just maybe, he’s trying to protect Dani and the only way to do that is to do whatever the alpha wants. Stiles lets out a sigh rubbing his face.

“Stiles, what is it?”

Stiles looks at his best friend with such a defeated look in his eyes. “I-” Stiles presses his lips together shaking his head. He’s not going to make it through this.

Scott stands up, walking over to Stiles with a worried frown. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles glances at him, tears forming in his eyes.

“It’s bad isn’t it?” Scott asks, his own voice starting to waver in reaction to Stiles’ broken fear radiating off of him.  

“Scott, he has Dani.”

Scott’s heart almost stops. “What?”

“The alpha, he has your sister.”

Scott holds Stiles’ defeated gaze, tears forming in his own eyes, mirroring Stiles.

“No…”

TAGS: @cutelittlepotatofry​ @realm-of-kearstenia​ @thisisparadisemylove​ @gollyderek​ @delacxurs​ @stillreadingfantasy​ @winchestergirl907​ @thebookisbtr​

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[farmerlan]

Farmer Lan’s Rewatch Guide to The Untamed - Episode 6

Vanity, thy name is Lan Wangji

SPOILERS AHEAD YOU KNOW IT

HAHAHA I feel like this episode is going to be really trying for me because there are so many scenes that TECHNICALLY happen in the novel, but not in this way. There’s a lot of crafty rewriting going on here that I’m going to try my best to reconcile with what’s going on in the novel. WARNING IT GETS REALLY LONG.

[We see the trio (Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng) enjoying some Tian Zi Xiao, a famous liquor produced within the region. Lan Wangji walks in at that moment and sees the debauchery going on. He demands they receive punishment but Wei Wuxian sets a talisman upon Lan Wangji to forcibly control him. Wei Wuxian then orders him to drink and we find out that he’s a super-lightweight. Wei Wuxian takes this chance to mess around with the usually stoic Lan Wangji. We learn that the Gusu Lan’s sect headband is sacred - no one can touch the headband except parents and significant others.

Wei Wuxian counters that no one on earth is going to marry into the Lan sect because they’re so stuffy HA. We learn a little about their backgrounds - Lan Wangji claims he does not have a mother, Wei Wuxian shares that he was orphaned at 4, and his only memory of his family is of them traveling with a donkey, laughing and having a good time.]

Differences from the novel:

Lan Wangji doesn’t interrupt the party - he interrupts the morning after. After a night of drunken shenanigans, Wei Wuxian & pals are all passed out in his room when Lan Wangji strides in the next morning. Next thing Wei Wuxian knows, he is being dragged by the collar into the ancestral hall for punishment. Lan Wangji doesn’t fall prey to any talisman tricks because...he’s too good for that obvi.

In the novel, we first learn that Lan Wangji is a one-shot wonder in Chapter 30, post-resurrection timeline, as part of the Yi City arc as they chase down the other body parts of the Demonic Left Arm’s corpse. He does not drink or become inebriated in Wei Wuxian’s first life. 

The actual backgrounds of both characters are correctly portrayed but this heart-to-heart conversation never happens at any point in the novel. In fact, with Lan Wangji’s general emotional constipation, many believed they were downright hostile to each other at times and I think even Wei Wuxian was unsure if Lan Wangji really returned his friendship prior to his death. 

We learn about Lan Wangji’s mother in more detail in one of the later episodes so I’ll talk about it then, but Wei Wuxian’s memory of his family was brought up in Chapter 66 of the novel. Specifically, he has a flashback as he is riding on Little Apple with Lan Wangji beside him, and then asks Lan Wangji to pick up the reins in order to re-enact the scene of his mother riding on a donkey led by his father from his memory. He then laments, “Guess we’re only missing a little one to complete the picture”. Obviously, Lan Wangji has no clue what he’s up to but he obliges and picks up the reins anyway.

Re: the headband, in the novel, it’s explained at the end of the Yi City arc, so there are no scenes with Lan Wangji’s ribbon in the Gusu Lan arc. Lan Wangji doesn’t actually explain in the drama what the headband signifies, besides that it is important (I forget whether the show explains this later on). But in the novel, we learn from Lan Sizhui in Chapter 45 that the headband is meant to signify self-restraint, and the only time when you’re allowed to be *ahem* uninhibited is in front of your significant other. Unfortunately, it’s a bit too late for that, especially since he explains this the day after the juniors witnessed a rather...shocking scene in the tavern (replaced by a more tame scene in Episode 40...so I’ll talk about that then because this is getting way too long.)

I’m just going to drop it right here that there is a flashback scene in the novel that is not in the drama. It’s right after Wei Wuxian learns about the meaning where he recounts that the first time he had touched Lan Wangji’s ribbon. In their youth, the Wen sect hosted a gathering/festival (idk what you want to call these...basically sects host get-togethers for other sects and these often last several days and can consist of many events, from banquets to hunts etc). It was during an archery competition event. Wei Wuxian initially tells Lan Wangji that his ribbon is crooked, causing Lan Wangji to feel for his headband to check, only to realize Wei Wuxian was teasing him. The next time, however, Wei Wuxian warns him that it really is coming loose but Lan Wangji ignores him as he figures Wei Wuxian is just being his grand ol’ joker self again. So Wei Wuxian reaches for it as he offers to fix it for Lan Wangji... and ends up accidentally ripping it off entirely. Lan Wangji is so upset he actually withdraws from the competition early (he still ends up placing fourth because he’s ~gifted~). Back to the present, Wei Wuxian reflects that it was a testament to Lan Wangji’s character and restraint that he didn’t immediately end Wei Wuxian’s life right there and then HA.

[The next day (let me stop here and just say the teaware in this show is to die for), we cut to Lan Qiren discussing similar happenings at the Nie sect, from where Lan Qiren has just returned. Lan Xichen deduces the water demon and snatched cultivator souls are connected.

We learn more about Wei Wuxian’s mom (Cang Se San Ren...CSSR because I can’t with how long the name is) but then our protagonists’ shenanigans are reported to Lan Qiren. Lan Qiren mets out punishment to the four of them, poor Lan Wangji included, and also accidentally reveals that he knew Wei Wuxian’s mom.

Cut to the Jiang sibs running into Lan Xichen and he tells them it’s going to take weeks to heal, and then points him to the cold springs. Wei Wuxian wants to learn more about CSSR - LOL Lan Xichen alludes to CSSR shaving Lan Qiren’s beard while she was here.

We get a scene with Wen Qing/Wen Ruohan - she seems to have discovered the Yin iron is in the water due to Wen Ning’s sudden change in appearance during the water demon hunt.]

Differences from the novel:

In the novel, Lan Qiren is called away to attend a conference the day after the pornography incident (so Wei Wuxian was NOT punished for that trick ha) and has no involvement in any of the events until the fight with Jin Zixuan.

The punishment scene was portrayed differently. Backstory is - the night before, Lan Wangji caught Wei Wuxian sneaking in alcohol again (he drew the short straw and had to buy it for his gang of do-no-gooders for the party). They fight again, but this time Wei Wuxian clings to Lan Wangji and tackles him off the border wall and onto the ground outside - which means Lan Wangji has now technically also broken the sect rules of being outside and re-entering past curfew. When Lan Wangji drags Wei Wuxian to the punishment hall the next morning, Wei Wuxian tries to pull a ‘gotcha’. He figured Lan Wangji would let him off since technically they both broke the rules and before you punish someone, you should apply the same rules to yourself. Cue Lan Wangji kneeling beside him and giving himself 50 more lashes than he gave to Wei Wuxian. Talk about holding yourself accountable.

There’s not really a lot of discussion of Lan Qiren and CSSR’s relationship in the novel - the author does state in an interview that CSSR AND Wei Wuxian both messed with Lan Qiren’s beloved facial hair, so like mother like son, but it wasn’t canon in the novel.

Jiang Cheng straight up carries Wei Wuxian out of the punishment hall on his back in the novel. Wei Wuxian’s being all finicky and “I didn’t ask you to carry me anyway” and Jiang Cheng replies, “Lan Wangji took 50 more lashings than you and walked out of there by himself! If I didn’t carry you out, god knows how long you would have laid there rolling around in the hall. I don’t think I could bear the shame! Also, stop playing victim then - get off my back and walk.” And Wei Wuxian immediately changes his tune and is all “But I caaaaaaan’t I’m so injured” LMAO.

Yes, Lan Xichen is still the biggest WangXian shipper and is indeed the person who points Wei Wuxian to the cold springs in the novel.

[Cold springs scene with Lan Wangji (they are both semi-naked in all versions besides this, also, who takes a dip FULLY CLOTHED, hello censorship) and Wei Wuxian declares his offer of friendship. Lan Wangji refuses, what else is new.

They both get sucked into a cave that is protected by ~magical guqin~ which forbids non-sect members from getting closer - oh, and there are rabbits wearing the Lan headband. Lan Wangji ties their wrists together with his sect ribbon and they are able to head up to the guqin together.

Lan Wangji plays the guqin to perform Inquiry (have I mentioned I cry tears of laughter whenever I see the guqin scenes I’m sorry bb it’s just really hilariously wrong…) Lan Yi shows up, we also see that everyone outside is looking for the two of them. Cue weird Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan scene as she slips and he catches her. The Jin Zixuan here is downright swoonworthy compared to the novel, I tell you.]

Differences from the novel:

The cold springs scene more or less follows the novel - the dialogue is somewhat different and there’s less physical contact (Lan Wangji in the novel straight up puts his hand on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder to stop him from moving around and splashing water everywhere). 

There is NO CAVE SCENE in the novel. The cold springs scene in the novel ends with Wei Wuxian’s offer of friendship being rejected, and he goes “You’re not giving me face at all, aren’t you afraid I’m going to take all your clothes when I leave if you keep rejecting me like this?” and Lan Wangji of course tells him to gtfo. So, no, we don’t get the symbolic ~tying together of their wrists~ scene in the novel and we do not meet Lan Yi in the novel.

There’s no Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan scene in the novel - I assume it was done for some more relationship building between the two characters in the drama since it would be kind of weird for the show to just throw them together into a romance and arranged marriage without building up to it.

There’s a whole other origin story to the rabbits running around Gusu Lan which I’ll cover in Episode 7.

[We learn that Lan Yi is a boss ass bitch who created the Chord Assassination technique and also appears to have a fondness for rabbits. Turns out she is NOT dead - just guarding the Yin metal until she dies. Cue origins of the Yin metal - it was owned by Xue Chonghai and he was the original demonic cultivator, using people as sacrifice and controlling the Tortoise of Slaughter. He was brought down by the sects and Yiling became known as the Yiling Burial Mounds. The Yin metal was then shattered to be suppressed by the five sects, and kept a secret.

Lan Yi, in an attempt to revitalize the Lan sect, went after the Yin metal despite the warnings of her bff Bao Shan San Ren (Wei Wuxian’s grandmaster). The Yin metal cannot be resealed, so Lan Yi was forced to seal herself in with it.]

Differences from the novel:

Nope, none of this happened. Xue Chonghai is not a character in the novel at all. There’s no Yin metal, but Wei Wuxian DID come up with the Yin Hu Fu (the Yin Tiger Seal) as a weapon. We learn more about its backstory in Chapter 30, however, the novel only states that it was crafted by Wei Wuxian from a mysterious piece of metal he harvested from a monster. The power of the seal therefore really comes from the knowledge that Wei Wuxian possessed to make it - many after him had tried and failed to replicate his success following his death. In the novel, Wei Wuxian is the originator of demonic cultivation (or at least the first person to master it to such a fearsome degree), and he never controlled or sacrificed live people - only corpses.

In the novel, Lan Yi is indeed the only female cultivator to have led the Lan sect, and the creator of the Chord Assassination technique. This was covered as part of the introduction to the technique in Chapter 55 before Lan Wangji uses it on the Tortoise of Slaughter. We learn that due to the cruel nature of it (used to eliminate or suppress many of her enemies), not many people speak fondly of her but there’s no denying the power of the technique. However, that’s all we get - there’s no back story with BSSR or anything of that sort.

Overall Thoughts:

I have none because this post is already long enough hahahaha

[brightbeautifulthings]

MAYHEM BY ESTELLE LAURE BLOG TOUR & CHAPTER EXCERPT

The Lost Boys meets Wilder Girls in this supernatural feminist YA novel.

Available July 14th, 2020

It's 1987 and unfortunately it's not all Madonna and cherry lip balm. Mayhem Brayburn has always known there was something off about her and her mother, Roxy. Maybe it has to do with Roxy's constant physical pain, or maybe with Mayhem's own irresistible pull to water. Either way, she knows they aren't like everyone else.

But when May's stepfather finally goes too far, Roxy and Mayhem flee to Santa Maria, California, the coastal beach town that holds the answers to all of Mayhem's questions about who her mother is, her estranged family, and the mysteries of her own self. There she meets the kids who live with her aunt, and it opens the door to the magic that runs through the female lineage in her family, the very magic Mayhem is next in line to inherit and which will change her life for good.

But when she gets wrapped up in the search for the man who has been kidnapping girls from the beach, her life takes another dangerous turn and she is forced to face the price of vigilante justice and to ask herself whether revenge is worth the cost.

From the acclaimed author of This Raging Light and But Then I Came Back, Estelle Laure offers a riveting and complex story with magical elements about a family of women contending with what appears to be an irreversible destiny, taking control and saying when enough is enough.

About the Author:

Estelle Laure, the author of This Raging Light and But Then I Came Back believes in love, magic, and the power of facing hard truths. She has a BA in Theatre Arts and an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts in Writing for Children and Young Adults, and she lives in Taos, New Mexico, with her family. Her work is translated widely around the world. 

Twitter | Instagram | Get Your Copy

Read on for a special chapter excerpt of Mayhem!

three Santa Maria

“Trouble,” Roxy says. She arches a brow at the kids by the van through the bug-spattered windshield, the ghost of a half-smile rippling across her face.

“You would know,” I shoot.

“So would you,” she snaps.

Maybe we’re a little on edge. We’ve been in the car so long the pattern on the vinyl seats is tattooed on the back of my thighs.

The kids my mother is talking about, the ones sitting on the white picket fence, look like they slithered up the hill out of the ocean, covered in seaweed, like the carnival music we heard coming from the boardwalk as we were driving into town plays in the air around them at all times. Two crows are on the posts beside them like they’re standing guard, and they caw at each other loudly as we come to a stop. I love every- thing about this place immediately and I think, ridiculously, that I am no longer alone.

The older girl, white but tan, curvaceous, and lean, has her arms around the boy and is lovely with her smudged eye makeup and her ripped clothes. The younger one pops some- thing made of bright colors into her mouth and watches us come up the drive. She is in a military-style jacket with a ton of buttons, her frizzy blond hair reaching in all directions, freckles slapped across her cheeks. And the boy? Thin, brown, hungry-looking. Not hungry in his stomach. Hungry with his eyes. He has a green bandana tied across his forehead and holes in the knees of his jeans. There’s an A in a circle drawn in marker across the front of his T-shirt.

Anarchy.

“Look!” Roxy points to the gas gauge. It’s just above the E. “You owe me five bucks, Cookie. I told you to trust we would make it, and see what happened? You should listen to your mama every once in a while.”

“Yeah, well, can I borrow the five bucks to pay you for the bet? I’m fresh out of cash at the moment.”

“Very funny.”

Roxy cranes out the window and wipes the sweat off her upper lip, careful not to smudge her red lipstick. She’s been having real bad aches the last two days, even aside from her bruises, and her appetite’s been worse than ever. The only thing she ever wants is sugar. After having been in the car for so long, you’d think we’d be falling all over each other to get out, but we’re still sitting in the car. In here we’re still us.

She sighs for the thousandth time and clutches at her belly. “I don’t know about this, May.”

California can’t be that different from West Texas.

I watch TV. I know how to say gag me with a spoon and grody to the max.

I fling open the door.

Roxy gathers her cigarettes and lighter, and drops them in- side her purse with a snap.

“Goddammit, Elle,” she mutters to herself, eyes flickering toward the kids again. Roxy looks at me over the rims of her sunglasses before shoving them back on her nose. “Mayhem, I’m counting on you to keep your head together here. Those kids are not the usual—”

“I know! You told me they’re foster kids.” 

“No, not that,” she says, but doesn’t clarify. “Okay, I guess.”

“I mean it. No more of that wild-child business.”

“I will keep my head together!” I’m so tired of her saying this. I never had any friends, never a boyfriend—all I have is what Grandmother calls my nasty mouth and the hair Lyle always said was ugly and whorish. And once or twice I might’ve got drunk on the roof, but it’s not like I ever did anything. Besides, no kid my age has ever liked me even once. I’m not the wild child in the family.

“Well, all right then.” Roxy messes with her hair in the rear- view mirror, then sprays herself with a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and runs her fingers over her gold necklace. It’s of a bird, not unlike the ones making a fuss by the house. She’s had it as long as I can remember, and over time it’s been worn smooth by her worrying fingers. It’s like she uses it to calm herself when she’s upset about something, and she’s been upset the whole way here, practically. Usually, she’d be good and buzzed by this time of day, but since she’s had to drive some, she’s only nipped from the tiny bottle of wine in her purse a few times and only taken a couple pills since we left Taylor. The with- drawal has turned her into a bit of a she-demon.

I try to look through her eyes, to see what she sees. Roxy hasn’t been back here since I was three years old, and in that time, her mother has died, her father has died, and like she said when she got the card with the picture enclosed that her twin sister, Elle, sent last Christmas, Everybody got old. After that, she spent a lot of time staring in the mirror, pinching at her neck skin. When I was younger, she passed long nights telling me about Santa Maria and the Brayburn Farm, about how it was good and evil in equal measure, about how it had desires that had to be satisfied.

Brayburns, she would say. In my town, we were the legends. 

These were the mumbled stories of my childhood, and they made everything about this place loom large. Now that we’re here, I realize I expected the house to have a gaping maw filled with spitty, frothy teeth, as much as I figured there would be fairies flitting around with wands granting wishes. I don’t want to take her vision away from her, but this place looks pretty normal to me, if run-down compared to our new house in Taylor, where there’s no dust anywhere, ever, and Lyle prac- tically keeps the cans of soup in alphabetical order. Maybe what’s not so normal is that this place was built by Brayburns, and here Brayburns matter. I know because the whole road is named after us and because flowers and ribbons and baskets of fruit sat at the entrance, gifts from the people in town, Roxy said. They leave offerings. She said it like it’s normal to be treated like some kind of low-rent goddess.

Other than the van and the kids, there are trees here, rose- bushes, an old black Mercedes, and some bikes leaning against the porch that’s attached to the house. It’s splashed with fresh white paint that doesn’t quite cover up its wrinkles and scars. It’s three stories, so it cuts the sunset when I look up, and plants drape down to touch the dirt.

The front door swings open and a woman in bare feet races past the rosebushes toward us. It is those feet and the reckless way they pound against the earth that tells me this is my aunt Elle before her face does. My stomach gallops and there are bumps all over my arms, and I am more awake than I’ve been since.

I thought Roxy might do a lot of things when she saw her twin sister. Like she might get super quiet or chain-smoke, or maybe even get biting like she can when she’s feeling wrong about something. The last thing I would have ever imagined was them running toward each other and colliding in the driveway, Roxy wrapping her legs around Elle’s waist, and them twirling like that. 

This seems like something I shouldn’t be seeing, some- thing wounded and private that fills up my throat. I flip my- self around in my seat and start picking through the things we brought and chide myself yet again for the miserable packing job I did. Since I was basically out of my mind trying to get out of the house, I took a whole package of toothbrushes, an armful of books, my River Phoenix poster, plus I emptied out my underwear drawer, but totally forgot to pack any shoes, so all I have are some flip-flops I bought at the truck stop outside of Las Cruces after that man came to the window, slurring, You got nice legs. Tap, tap tap. You got such nice legs.

My flip-flops are covered in Cheeto dust from a bag that got upended. I slip them on anyway, watching Roxy take her sunglasses off and prop them on her head.

“Son of a bitch!” my aunt says, her voice tinny as she catches sight of Roxy’s eye. “Oh my God, that’s really bad, Rox. You made it sound like nothing. That’s not nothing.”

“Ellie,” Roxy says, trying to put laughter in her voice. “I’m here now. We’re here now.”

There’s a pause.

“You look the same,” Elle says. “Except the hair. You went full Marilyn Monroe.”

“What about you?” Roxy says, fussing at her platinum waves with her palm. “You go full granola warrior? When’s the last time you ate a burger?”

“You know I don’t do that. It’s no good for us. Definitely no good for the poor cows.”

“It’s fine for me.” Roxy lifts Elle’s arm and puckers her nose. “What’s going on with your armpits? May not eat meat but you got animals under there, looks like.”

“Shaving is subjugation.”

“Shaving is a mercy for all mankind.” 

They erupt into laughter and hug each other again.

“Well, where is she, my little baby niece?” Elle swings the car door open. “Oh, Mayhem.” She scoops me out with two strong arms. Right then I realize just how truly tired I am. She seems to know, squeezes extra hard for a second before letting me go. She smells like the sandalwood soap Roxy buys sometimes. “My baby girl,” Elle says, “you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to see you. How much I’ve missed you.”

Roxy circles her ear with a finger where Elle can’t see her.

Crazy, she mouths. I almost giggle.

[saikasae]

Hello!

So I wrote something. I have been keeping this to myself, for quite a long time. But now I finally dared to post it here. I'm an amateur writer. I don't have any other writing experience, so I don't know where to start. So if you read this please leave out a note or any advice you would give to me. It would help me make my craft better. So your free to do so.

I don't have a working title for this. And it's not really under any genre at the moment. I do have a rough plan of its initial direction and the remaining cast. It may change over time. I hope I can see still keep writing. I do what to finish something in my life and this is one of them. This has been my baby that supports me in my emotional turmoil and has been my coping outlet with all the bad things that recently gone my way.

You free to criticize my work. And your free to do so. It would help me out.

CHAPTER 1

" It was because of the young man's charms, that she fell in love and left her family to be with him"

The plummet street of Harth is buzzing with the sound of the wet market. Voice of merchants and buyers resonated with the dirty streets. Bargaining a purchase or sling a deal. It was filled with voices with wants and needs, in the intent for betterment at each end of their bargain. It was a small fishing town in the outmost corner of Ciel.

A group of children huddles closely, by the inside the unmoving traveling wagon. Tranted with generation years of use. And seemingly incapable of its initial usage. It shows poke and tears of the cloth encapsulation it's an inner cabin. And rotten, creaking wooden panels threatening to collapse beneath their feet.

Voice looms over the wooden carriage, each bringing voices of concern and question. Regarding the statement.

One voice looms above the rest, as it regarding its listener with their concern. A young girl who seems not to have reached the age of ten held the authority in the present discussion. Urging her listener, by constantly shushing. Ever relevant to children's insolence. As her listener, who are children, both boys and girls alike, no one older than herself, refuses to listen to that so-called held authority. It was with bickering calls and name-calling, ever-present in childhood brawls. That she finally regains the presence of her audience.

" Like is said SHUT UP-" the young girl places her hand in her lavish hair. Having trouble asses control over the situation. Dressed in a hand me down, thin cloth of baker flour sack, fashioned into clothing and a pair of mismatched shoes, a fortune as regards if you live in slums. Which most citizens are barefooted.

Elie has a face said to be suited of a low Nobel woman, praise in its self is a high worth. If she would maintain their Nobel's counterpart's hygiene. Most more likely containing a luxurious amount of soaps fashioned from animal fats. Essential perfumed oils from flower, within the part of their land, is rarely to be seen or ever smell one.

If she only would wear an elegantly woven dress, with intricately detailed and finely measured to the wearer's body, and in a possession of a precious plot of land embroidered with a few finely crafted jewelry, accessory toppled with color full weirdly shapes, expensive gems stone. She would at least look the part.

In which as the young maiden regarded is a merely a boastful fashioned of wealth. No more than an empty representation of their extravagant, crude lifestyle.

"The man is a Lord, I heard."

She and the other children in her care. Had never seen a lord before, or contemplate enough to imagine, what would one looked like. But in their imagination maybe sum up to a single image; a bloated, grotesque large body, always hungry individual, fashioned with the most expensive clothes and gems in the land. With twice expression for hungry. And pious like face.

In summary, a pig wearing expensive clothing.

Harth has never seen a Nobel- a Lord before, and never contemplated to house one. It was a suburban fishing village, relative close to the kingdom of Ciel in its outermost outskirts. Closes to Laurice's family's summer house. A house by which the Laurice king's as born. Centered by both powerful families. Neither one wants to own Harth. The remaining of the few villages were disregarded by the realm. Poor enough to be disregarded for the prosperity of the realm.

The young girl's thoughts stray away, it was immediately brought back, by the urgent sounds of discussion of her audience.

" That's not true! My mother said that the girl did-not fell in love with him. But-but she was taken by him" regarded by a skinny boy with the voice of a screeching mouse.

"Yes." another one regarded,

"He had taken her to be his wife. "

" And forcible bedded her." a roar of laughter came, mostly from the boys present in the group.

Their female counterparts sneer in dismay at the other's reaction. And the apparent figure who openly disapproves of this is Elie, the leader, a female herself.

Once again the wagon itself has filed with laughter, senseless chattering, and this time quite a lot of jumping. Which in the wagon current state could not handle.

"That's Enough-" Elie's shout was cut off by a soft but attractive voice.

"Enough." It says, in a certain firmness which one would stop if one would hear.

Timothy.

Timothy came in the parted drapes of the thin cloth. He fashioned himself to enter at the front side -where the horse and the couch man would be if this wagon is still in usage. He entered exactly by the place where Elie is standing, conducting this meeting. And by this time in had interrupted her talk more times than she can count. And she can count This is Harth- where counting is hailed more than reading and writing. Counting here means survival.

She stares at Timothy in disbelief, as the latter makes way, sitting next to her makeshift pedestal. Her audience stopped by the arrival of Timothy, quietly sitting down, as he made his way beside Elie.

" You can't just barge into someone like that," Elie said looking up, eyeing Timothy in a distasteful glare.

He had interrupted Elie many times before. He always did not listen when she asked him, and would not bother to announce the present to her. And would always barge in the middle of else's talk.

His voice always made her jump, and Elie is not pleased with that.

Despite having physic of a 19 or the age closer to that. Which Elie, had politely questioned him about his age. and got a reply of "Close to that." with a condescending tone.

Timothy is quite childish and lacks the manner of a proper in a coming adult must-have. Elie knows that they are nowhere close to a Nobel or are one themselves. But it is not an excuse for oneself to act not like one.

She was always taught not to talk back or cut someone off like that.

Barbaric is the only word she could describe him. Barbaric not in a context of looks but by his action. Timothy is quite handsome in looks for his warm eyes, and a kindred smiling face. He has a very dirty hair if Elie could comprehend, inward competing-winning to her sun-dried brunet locks. Elie's thought if he would keep clean enough would surely resemble the yellow color of that of corn.

For Timothy, eyes are another matter of warmth. Contrasting its actual vibrant blue color, which reminded Elie of the cool blue waves of Harth. Timothy is only one it these parts. He not like any adult she met. His nice, crude, and a little bit outspoken at times.

Elie constantly experienced being shout at. Which is a merchant village in itself, a manner which grown by the local for your voice to be heard, you have to shout. But he kept his voice level at all cost.

" Hahaha, The Maiden and The Lad. A rather old story. Told by different people and heard by different ears." he regarded them with his open smiling face.

The children listen intently to the voice of the young man. Who had the eyes of every person from the wagon and Elie herself?

"By that, had been interpreted differently by the people of themselves." He raised his hands in an open gesture.

"It may be a story of love by which the young maiden herself falls in, willingly to the man's soft graces," Timothy said putting little pressure in his tone.

" An act of heinous crime itself, having that maiden snacked away from her family, seemly of the young man." he paused " forcing himself on her despite not feeling the same way. "

"But the different versions tell the same story. The Maiden left her family to be with the young man whether it is voluntary or not. "

Silent grew awkwardly from the children.

It was Elie that spoke up.

"You mean, that her family could be lonely."," When left with him."

"Yes, her family is lonely.",

" It is the part where the songs have missed, Timothy said. " It lacks the chivalrous act, that one wants to be said in a song,

familial love is indeed rarely depicted for a song."

Especially the song, The maiden, and the lad

that focuses on telling a journey of maiden having left family volunteer or not, to be with a lad that lives in the secluded woods. It is a romantic song if Ellie could comprehend not a familial one. That is held only the thoughts about the maiden for the lad.

Another girl voice out.

" Do you -think they may come for the her-her family to come home."

Timothy smiled

"Possibly."

"Timothy." a voice shouted in the distancing. Timothy, it continued.

The kids went up and pried open the drop cloth to looked out the shouting man.

The man wearing clothes of high quality is relatively simple at first glance. But Upon closer inspection, it is the finely sewn laces, handcrafted meticulously to fit the wearers built. An aristocrat if Elie could comprehend.

It voices out Timothy's name with urgency, as his handsome features drip with sweat, straying hair frame his face possible for the fact that the man may have been looking for Timothy for a long time. Voicing out his voice without the intent of stopping.

" Hey, Timothy! Your man is calling you home." The wagon thunder with laughter yet again. Uncontainablehis time.

Timothy gave out a huge sigh and head out of the cabin.

Elie looked at Timothy's figure as he heads toward the man.

News of Timothy having got himself a Nobel is not new at all. Elie had perceived it at least, knowing Timothy and all.

He held himself different from the other young man she has seen here in Harth. Having held himself better than the women combined in this small fishing town.

One of the boys jumped up and down and said.

"Just when Timothy got to play with us."

" We can help it, you know that he rather busy."

"From running around and all."

"Why Timothy, why can you stay longer" a younger girl cried out.

"Shut it." Elie voice out with authority.

" One time -" the screeching voice spoke up and ignored Elie. "One time, my father got Timothy to help, moving out the fishes we just caught. Despite having worked hard the whole day without complaining. Three copper -my father gave him enough to last you three days of the meal. He gave it to me. All of it. Not a single one was taken. He says to kept it a secret between the both of us."

Woah. A loud appreciation poured out from the children. The discussion that they just held turned into an open forum, of Timothy's good deeds.

"I got one also, I was in the Forrest, there to picked up wood for the fire. When I lost my way, it was also beginning to darken - I'm mean. I was so scared thinking I was gonna die, there where he found me. And lead back to my home."

Another round of applause came.

Another spoke out.

" I was playing in the ditch when I fell and sprained my feet, and their right then Timothy appeared. He lends his back for me, offering a ride in his back. There he carried me back to where my brother was. He was so nice and smelled nice too!"

"Smell nice?" Elie questioned.

" Yes, I supposed like flowers" then the applause came.

Flowers. Elie never smelled one. And surely is the same for the children around her. She had seen one displayed in a glass container behind the counter of the store owner, meticulously guarded. It looks nice but expensive. Timothy must have gotten it from that man.

Elie has a story of her own of Timothy's heroic act. Which involves one of the pair of her which matched shoes.

Timothy is nice. But saying it often is not pleasing to her ears. The children got rowdier.

"That's right, Elie." the familiar voice said.

"Your mother is looking for". Timothy said peaking out his yellow head from the parted cloth.

"And don't worry, I will be back," he said addressing all the children in a wagon. And left.

The wagon was one again filed with cheers.

[authoressofdarkness]

Beauty and the Beast (Chapter 2)

Stark’s hand closes over both of his wrists, and in the next instant, they’re both encased in metal. It’s nanotech, Peter is sure immediately. This is the same stuff that armor is made out of, and even his super strength won’t make a dent in it. He knows from experience.

Notes: Hey everyone! It's unlike me to not leave an author's note on a chapter, especially a first one, but I was busy and pretty proud of the first chapter so I decided to just post it and see how it went. Never fear, I'm back now! Thanks so much to everyone who read, reviewed, left kudos, etc! Love you all 3000!

I had a few people ask in the comments if this was going to be a oneshot or a short thing, because apparently I'm a dumbass and had it accidentally marked as complete. The answer is a big NO from me! I have a lot of things being tossed around for this fic and it's probably going to be massive. It's also going to get VERY dark before it gets anywhere near a happy ending, if it ever does, so PLEASE take care of yourselves. I'll try to remember to put trigger warnings at the beginning of the chapters, but just remember: I chose not to use archive warnings. ;)

Also, shoutout to @itfeelssogoodmrstark for being a great cheerleader and inspiring me to write this. Much love xo

Trigger warnings: Massive blood loss, Tony being a jerk, non/dubiously consensual touching in multiple ways, needles. Think that's all for this one.

“Behave?” Peter looks up at him, heart racing. “What do you mean, behave? I thought-“

“What, that I was going to kill you?” Stark chuckles, stalking back to him. “Hardly. What a waste that would be. What, with all the knowledge and pretty plans packed into your head. I told you, we have much to discuss.” 

“Like what? You know what I’ve been doing, obviously. You know who I am. And if you think I’m going to help you-“

Stark stops in front of him and laughs that dark laugh again. “Oh, you really are naive if you think I would for a second let you work as a double agent for me so that you could double cross me at the first opportunity. I don’t think so, sweetheart.” He tilts his chin up, studying his face with those piercing blue eyes. “No, my interest in you is much more… personal,” he murmurs, lips quirking up in a devious smirk.

Peter shivers. His spider senses are going nuts. He can feel the hair on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end, and every instinct in him screams to pull away, to resist, but all he can think about is Ben being dragged to God knows where and there’s no way in hell he’s getting out of Stark’s sight to rescue him any time soon. 

“What do you want?” He sounds defeated, even to his own ears. 

Stark smirks, stroking a cold metal finger down his jaw. “Right now? Your wrists.” 

The words throw him for a whole second before Stark raises an eyebrow at him, clearly ready to scold him already for disobeying, and then he jolts back to reality and thrusts his wrists out in front of him. It only makes sense that he’s going to be bound before they go anywhere. It just… was not the response he was expecting, though he couldn’t bring himself to fathom why. 

Stark’s hand closes over both of his wrists, and in the next instant, they’re both encased in metal. It’s nanotech, Peter is sure immediately. This is the same stuff that armor is made out of, and even his super strength won’t make a dent in it. He knows from experience. 

Stark gives him a tug forward, and this time it’s his lips on Peter’s jaw. He purrs audibly as they drag over Peter’s stubble, which grows in quicker with his enhancements, so of course it’s back despite him shaving before leaving this morning for class. 

Classes he’ll likely never go to again. When he was just starting college. And now he’d never get to finish.

Times like right now, when the villains got too close — and they all did, invariably, every once in a while, and of course there was still more around than just the one in front of him — he questioned why he’d become Spider-Man in the first place. He wanted a life. He wanted so much, and then-

And then Stark’s lips brushed against his jawline again, and it both served to jolt him back to reality and remember exactly why. So this person — if he could even be considered one anymore — couldn’t hurt anyone else. And if nothing else good came out of this situation, at least the more time he spent with Peter, the less time he spent hurting anyone else. 

Stark steps back, keeping his grip on Peter’s wrists despite the nanotech. “Up,” he orders, and Peter obeys. Stark starts walking, towing Peter along behind him, and he follows silently, knowing better than to ask where they’re going. 

At least he’s silent until he realizes where they’re going, and then he sets his heels into the ground, bringing them to a stop. “No.”

Stark raises an eyebrow at him, not even turning to face him completely. “You will do what I tell you,” he tells him. “It’s not a discussion.” 

“If you think I’m going to let you-“

“I don’t think you’ll be letting me do anything. I’ll tie you up, if I have to.” Stark cocks his head. “It will be a lot less painful if you cooperate, Spiderling.” 

Peter swallows hard. He’s been here an hour, tops, and Stark has him ready to beg for the second time. It’s almost laughable. “Please don’t do this.”

Stark sighs heavily. “Are you always this dramatic?” He gives him a firm tug, jerking him towards him. “We’re going to go in there, and you’re going to do what I tell you, or I’m going to go pay your uncle a visit and make you watch on the security cameras. Do you understand?” 

That makes him freeze, and any thought of protests goes out the window the moment he brings Ben into it. “I thought you weren’t going to kill me.” Although I might prefer it if you did. “You’ll never get as much as you want out of me without doing it.”

Stark resumes walking, not-quite-dragging a reluctant Peter behind him again. “I don’t want full schematics. Not yet, at least. Just some blood. Don’t worry, I’ll even take it the easier way.” He stops in front of a door and taps in a code, pushing it open before shooting him a feral grin. “This time, anyway. Now get inside before I change my mind.” 

It takes most of his self control to not shuffle his feet around to delay going in, but he still hesitated for the barest second in the doorway. Thus far, Stark hadn’t seemed to lie to him, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Although why he would when Peter obviously couldn’t get out if he tried… 

Stark’s lab looks even more expansive inside than what he caught a glimpse of through the glass on the outside. This one is obviously for medicinal purposes - or mostly, anyway. A glance around showed full specs of equipment in various sectioned off areas, including everything from what looked to be an x-ray setup to metal tables that he didn’t even want to imagine what happened on them. Just the thought makes him shudder almost as much as the antiseptic smell.

Stark enters behind him not even a second later, and the door hums in quiet confirmation of the lock resetting. Then Stark grabs his arm, guiding him not-so-gently towards one of the areas in the back. 

He pulls him to a stop in front of a metal chair - metal, always metal, some part of him notes, and he shudders to think of the reasons why - and the bonds on his wrists melt away. “Bag off and sit,” Stark orders before turning to a nearby counter. “Don’t do anything stupid, or we will do this the hard way.” 

Peter complies, albeit reluctantly. He’d again forgotten he was even still wearing his book bag, but he doesn’t really want to take it off. He knows the likelihood he’ll see it again once it’s off his body is incredibly low. His chest aches at the thought of losing the suit, but he knows the likelihood he’ll ever get to use it again is even lower than the likelihood of seeing it.

He sets the bag down with a resigned sigh, and sits in the chair. 

Stark turns around a moment later, looking both pleased and amused at his clear resignation. He walks back over, putting a hand on his shoulder, and the bonds on his wrists remateralize, effectively cuffing him to the chair as Stark tilts his head to the side. 

Peter catches a flash of silver from the corner of his eye and can’t help the reflexive gulp. “What are you doing?” 

“Exactly what I told you.” Something cold and wet brushes his neck, and he grimaces at the burn left in its place. 

“You’re taking blood from my neck?” 

Stark heaves a sigh. “Bigger veins, closer to your heart. More blood, faster, less chance the vein will collapse, and I can make it gravity fed so I don’t have to stand here the whole time. But I suppose next time I can just cut you open and get the blood that way, if it suits you.” 

The threat doesn’t scare him as much as it should. Not as much as the idea of a needle in his neck, anyway, which is probably irrational and ridiculous, but it’s true.

He winces as the needle pierces the tender skin on the side of his neck, and then Stark tapes it in place and steps away, letting his head go. He feels the urge to try to rub at it, but doesn’t want to give Stark the satisfaction of watching him pull at the bonds. “Christ. How much blood are you taking?” 

“A few pints, to start,” Stark answers, from somewhere out of his line of sight. 

“A few pints? You are trying to kill me.” He sounds more surprised than he probably should. 

“You really are over dramatic, aren’t you?” Stark reappears in front of him, rolling his eyes. “I know what I’m doing. You won’t lose more than thirty percent of your overall blood volume. I’m monitoring it. You may still pass out, though,” he admits with a shrug. “Or maybe not, with your advanced healing.” 

Peter startles. “How do you know about that?”

Stark snorts. “Please. We’ve encountered each other… what, twice, in person? Both times you sustained injuries that might have killed someone else and were at class the next day. You’re not great at being inconspicuous.” 

Peter frowns a little. He doesn’t remember much about either of the encounters, although he knows they happened. Recollection is faint — likely because of the injuries he sustained. He’s had a lot of concussions that didn’t exactly get treated properly. Oops. 

“Oh,” is his brilliant response to that. Then, “If you know about my powers… what are you testing? What is there to talk about if you know all my secrets?” 

Stark chuckles. “I wouldn’t say that. Not yet. Besides, there’s other things to discuss.” 

By now, Peter’s head is starting to feel fainting fuzzy. Sentences are hard to form. He imagines this is what bleeding to death feels like, although the line in his neck is controlled, making it agonizingly slow. “Like what?” 

There’s a faint feeling of fingers on his chin, and only then does he realize that his eyes had fallen closed, and forces them open. Stark is in front of him, of course, studying him with his brows drawn together. 

He only gets a clear image for a minute before his eyes start to refusing to work. Things are going in and out of focus, fuzzy, and the effort of trying to refocus them make him dizzy, so he simply closes them again. 

Stark releases his chin and steps away. “Even if I told you right now, you wouldn’t remember it later.” It’s not a threat, just a statement of fact, and right now he’s inclined to agree. 

How much blood has he lost already? It’s starting to feel less like it’s flowing out and more like it’s being sucked. His limbs, head, and even his tongue are starting to feel heavy. It would take too much effort now to even consider trying to move, even if he had to rip the line out to save his own life. 

It doesn’t exactly hurt. Numbness and fatigue creep up on him, not painfully but still agonizing in their slowness. He finds himself wishing Stark would just bite him next time like the vampire he is. At least that would be quicker. 

Stark’s chuckle sounds like it’s echoing from far away. “I wouldn’t invite me to bite you, silly boy. Although there’s plenty of time for that later. I’m sure we can incorporate that into my plans.” 

Peter is vaguely confused. Did he say that aloud? No way to know, not when his mouth is refusing to work for him when he wants it to. He lets his head fall back against the chair behind him, feeling his consciousness slowly fade away. 

A keyboard is clicking from somewhere far away, accompanied by a low murmuring and then something that sounds like dial tones. A moment later, sounding so far away, he hears a single word from a voice he’s sure he knows, but can’t place through the fuzziness in his head: “Hello?”

“Hello, Doctor. I don’t suppose you’re around and would like to swing by the tower. I’ve got something you might like to see…”

The words float in and out of his head, just out of reach as soon as they enter. But the half a second’s grasp he has on them is enough to make his heart race again, even if he has no idea why after. Reality is fading away. No, maybe he is fading away from reality. 

The itch of danger is there until the end, though, and he forces his eyes open one last time to catch a glimpse of a blurry face and brown eyes before passing out.

[saltyslack-toast]

#Knock The Book 2: The Devil All the Time

WELL, I MADE IT TO THE 2nd BOOK REVIEW OF MINE, MEANS THAT I’M A PASSIONATE AND PERSISTENT BITCH, PERIODT. No actually I’m just bored and got really nothing to do, so here I am making judgmental, invalid and uncritical book review just to ease my guilt for doing nothing at home (just so my mom see me working through my laptop).

Okay The Devil All the Time is actually my first English book. The story of how I got this book as a matter of fact is quite irritating and funny at the same time. My uni friend, she saw this book in a modest book bazaar near her hometown. She was reading the title and the word ‘devil’ just remind her of me, she bought it and just gave it straight to me…... I’m sad but like thankful???

It’s a secondhand and hardcover book but I don’t really mind, considering the fact that the quality is still very nice though, except the worn spots stained all over the cover that make the book looks very old. My friend bought this only for RP 25.000, yes dude you’re not misread this shit, it was THAT CHEAP (whoever sell and own this book before me, I really appreciate it). Although if you want to buy the new one, you can get this book for USD 26.95 which converted in rupiah would be RP 407.500, yeah its cost pretty fancy for broke students like us and I don’t know if the book’s supposed to be available in your local bookstore but I think you can find it in worldwide shipping online store like amazon or any other shop perhaps. The book’s cover illustrate a dying white mutt hanging on the ‘log’ and bunch of cross everywhere, the cover is actually make sense when you read the book. It published in 2011 by doubleday in United States of America. The Author is Donald Ray Pollock, and you can find the sum information about his background written on the cover, but based form the book’s cover you can also check his website in donaldraypollock.com but when I checked, I’m not sure if it’s really his website since it just like pest control website (LMAOO I HAD NO IDEA FR). Anyway,

Let’s go breaking down the book!

“… Too much religion could be as bad as too little, maybe even worse, but moderation was just not in her husband’s nature”

The whole story in this book, basically give you portraits regarding the life of lunatics in the time after WWII. Nope, there is no sums up about the events happened in that moment so chill y’all non-historical enthusiast bitches. This book gonna give you a bizarre experience reading it, the first 10 pages of this book was already psychedelic, I assure that shit. Have you watched Games of Thrones series on HBO? It’s chilling right how Ned Stark, the protagonist of the main series died in the first season???? EXACTLY that was the vibes u got after reading the first chapter and get crazier every time u read forward. By the way, this book embodied 7 chapters and 55 sub-chapters, the chapter in odd and even numbers has 2 different main focuses on each characteristic exist, here I sum it up for you:

On the odd numbers chapters (1, 3, and so on), the central story of these chapters is circling among the family of Willard Russel, his Mom Emma and Uncle Earskell and also those 2 insane peeps Roy Laferty and Theodore. Willard Russel used to be a navy army and a bit skeptical dealing with religion issues just like his uncle, but his mom has always been a devoted worshiper. Willard married to the beautiful and kind-hearted women named Charlotte and they was given a son named Arvin Eugene Russel, everything was normal until Charlotte got sick and Willard gone crazy praying to god for his wife’s recovery and poor little Arvin has to suffer the predicament by his own self. Their stories always give me religious-fanaticism-gloomy vibes (is that even make sense??). Don’t even get me started with the life stories of the two brutes-ass man, Roy Laferty and Theodore they were used to be ‘preacher’ in Emma and young Willard’s Church. Nothing I could say further because it’s gonna be a major spoiler for you, but their stories really giving you insights of how frustration and fanaticism allow people to do something beyond their common sense.

“You remember what I told you the other day?” He asked Arvin

“About the boys on the bus?,”

“Well, that’s what I meant, you just got to pick the right time”

On the even numbers chapters (2, 4, and so on), the main tales is pertaining on the journey of Handerson couple, Carl and Sandy. They were like the Bonnie and Clyde but sad and exploitative version in this book. Carl is a ‘photographer’ and sandy working as a waitress in a café called Wooden Spoon (Which the place where Charlotte used to work as a waitress and the place she met Willard for the first time as well). During summertime they got this ‘ritual’ ((but not in a religious way)) where they drive to different states and give a ride to the hitchhikers found on the way, then Carl forcefully offer them to fuck Sandy for free (HIS OWN WIFE) while he took pictures of them fucking and after that Carl kill them and take all the money those hitchhikers got in their pocket (dude I can’t even judge anything). But to be honest, I’m not a fan of these two characters because they were all so ANNOYING to death. And then there is Bodecker Lee who’s a police and also Sandy’s brother, ok that’s it, I’m not gonna give you any spoilers.

“… He went down the street and sat on a bench in a park the rest of the day thinking about killing himself instead. Something broke in him that day. For the first time he could see that his whole life added up to absolutely nothing…”

You might be confused since there are quite a lot of keen characters in this book but there’s a point where all these bitches are relating to each other, so chill y’all impatient gripe-ass. Overall, the flow of the story is undoubtedly interesting for you to keep going throughout the whole story, because every phase gonna make you wondering about next things happened to them. But, the transitions among every chapters is quite uncomfortable for me, because sometimes when the story has reached its climax there is no resolutions coming to solve the problem immediately, and you’re faced to read the new chapter with a whole different setting and characters so it’s kind of ruining the vibes and emotions the book has made me, but again this just my personal preference so please don’t judge (while everything I did right now is judging inaccurately).

“He realized that he would never preach again, but that was all right. He’d never been much good at it anyway. Most people just wanted to hear the cripple play”

However, what I like the most from this book is the deepening of every character exists is so fascinating, even for just the side or supporting character (for god sake I’m sorry idk what to called a character that isn’t the main one), for example a bus driver in Meade, Ohio which Willard talked to when he was on the way home after the war ended, the narration wrapped and portraits the driver’s life perfectly without make us bored, and there’s still a bunch of interesting narration about the life of the side characters in this book that also as odds and intriguing as the main character’s background (jesus, everything happened and everyone in this book is just so strange and peculiar I swear to god). The story finished in a most tragic-beautiful but still gloomy way, even though it’s quite predictable but still a very good closing for me personally. To be noted, on the way to the end of the story, there will be emerge another asshole priest character named Preston Teagardin, ready to shake you up until you finish the book. But still, let’s said this particular ‘last minute character’ has proving that the author is paying so much attention of how the story ended isn’t leaving any 'rush-made' impression (this shit might confused you I’m sorry my English hasn’t got any better *sorry hand sign* *sorry hand sign* *sorry hand sign*). # hashtag attention to the detail bro.

Holy crap, that’s the first time I’m almost able to cut all the bullshit I intend to bring it up here.

This book is one of my top 5 books that you have to read once in a life time (although I haven’t discover the other four, omg im sorry y’all). Little information for you that the first time I read this book (yeah I read it for quite few times) is when the campaign of presidential election era, which in Indonesia the religious are pretty sentimental issues, some of the people in my country suddenly became those annoying fanatical preachers, man I can’t stand it. And this book is just precisely relating to that condition and I get to know at least a glance of what the heck odds things happened in their minds, since you know fanaticism and stupidity doesn’t hit only on particular group of religions, race, gender or anything, we can all be stupid and brainless (especially me because I basically have no brain). There probably quite many scenes that is pretty disturbing to read (I don’t know if people could be triggered by it???? But I guess so) so yeah a bit warning. Overall, I genuinely recommend this book for you guys because every element in this book is almost perfect, the storylines, bold characters, and the RARE AND STRANGE AND SENSITIVE topic promote by the author in this novel is totally a BOOM. Don’t worry reading this book not going to give you those agnostic and atheist vibes HAHA chill I still consider myself a devoted Muslim tho (hashtag masyaallah ukthi).

By the way before I wrapped it up, I hear that this book will be made into a netflix film. WELL, of course I’m excited because the casts are so amazing, and I love Netflix adaptation and I enjoy watch movies as much as I read books (again, unnecessary information of mine *sorry hand sign*). I found that the release date is postponed from the origin plan in 15th May (which is three days ago from I posted this on my page) due to I don’t know perhaps corona because that bitch has ruined everyone in the world’s schedule, but for real I can’t find the exact information regarding to the updated release date, so while you wait the film to launch, why don’t you just go read the book first? I assure you this one not gonna give you any disappointment.

I think that would be it for this 2nd rubbish book review of mine. Although, I think I made a little progressive from the first one (OR MAYBE NOT???? I’M SORRY Y’ALL) but of course there’s still much deficiency I served. Still, I hope my writing get better in the process of making this whole novel of reviewing book inaccurately. To be honest, I wrote this shit not for getting any engagements or audience but for my own satisfied HAHA. So yeah I’m literally comfortable writing for nothing. But bitch guess what I’m just gonna keep going, until I could professionally writing and make it for a living? Well, amen for that.

Xiao, See you in Advance!

[forestwater87]

Ok this is super embarrassing but you’re one of my favorite writers in this uh.. whatever this blogosphere is so!! I wanna try and take a crack at writing my own fanfic but.. I got no idea where to even start. Any advice?

Oh man, I feel awful about this! I didn’t know my inbox had any new messages, so some of these asks have been sitting here for . . . some time. 

Anyway, first off thank you very much! Secondly, the most obvious advice is just, you know, “do it.” But that’s infinitely easier said than done. I started writing fanfic when I was around 10 years old, so overthinking it wasn’t an issue, since I thought I was the world’s greatest writer. Assuming you’re not 10 years old and as blind to the concept of literary criticism as I was . . . well, the first step is obviously getting an idea. EDIT: Holy shit, this is long. I’m gonna have to break this bad boy up with headers, like it’s a real blog post or something.

Getting Ideas/Inspiration

I don’t know if you already have something you’d like to write about or if you’re still at the “gee that looks like fun” level of fanfic ruminating, but if you’re having trouble coming up with ideas, turning to the existing fandom is a great place to start! 

1: Filling in fandom gaps: I’ve found a lot of my best fic ideas by looking through what already existed and seeing where there was something missing; when I first started writing for Camp Camp, literally only @raenbowsofficial created anything for Gwenvid -- it didn’t even have a ship name yet, and I’m pretty sure the 3 people into it were still throwing “daven” and “gavid” around as well -- so there being zero other fics for it meant that if I wanted it to exist, I’d have to be the one to write it. (That’s also nice if you’re kind of insecure, because when no one else has tried the idea you’re interested in, you have no pressure to compare it to anything else.) 

Also, you could take a popular/already existing concept and write it the way you’d like to see it, if the existing fanfics do something with the story or characters that you’re not thrilled with. That’s handy because it gives you a general blueprint to work off of in terms of tropes and broad story beats, while letting you explore something new. Obviously, don’t rip off someone else’s fic note-for-note, but being inspired by someone else is a great way to kickstart your creativity! If you do have a specific author or story that you’re using as a jumping-off point for your own writing, I would strongly recommend linking them in your author’s notes at the beginning or end of the fic, and maybe gifting the story to them! You don’t have to, since the creation is entirely your own, but it’s still always nice to acknowledge the people who inspire you the most.

2: Fandom inception. If you want to be a little more direct and literal, there’s always the option of writing fanfic of a fanfic or fanart that you really love, if there’s a universe or story idea that you like, and you want more of it. As long as you give credit and notify the original creator, I think you’d have no issues in terms of fanfic etiquette, and I imagine they’d be honored to have inspired your own writing. Fandom is a very collaborative experience, after all, and we’re all in this together! :)

3. For more general “I have a vague idea of what I want to do (the ship, or maybe a tiny plot bunny) but I’m not sure where to go with it,” my biggest recommendation is music. Especially folk indie-rock music, which is 90% angst and 100% haunting. And again, looking at fanfic/art is a great way to get inspired -- I have a tendency to put up a particularly good or emblematic piece of fanart/fic in another window when I’m working on something tricky to write, just for something to stare at when my ideas start running dry (shoutout to @doritofalls, @ellohcee, and the aforementioned RA for being my go-tos when I need to stare at something pretty to feel inspired; there are absolutely others, because this fandom is filled with absurdly talented people, but those 3 are my heroes of inspiration and if you SOMEHOW don’t already know them, fix that immediately). 

Wow, that’s a lot and it’s literally just all about getting an idea . . . which you might already have. Yikes. For the sake of people who have to scroll past this, let’s put the rest under a cut:

Fleshing Out the Idea: An Ode to Outlines

Some people are able to just sit down and write something incredible from a vague idea, and the story just builds on itself without any sort of planning or organization to guide them along the way. These people are named Cipher/Campernetics, and we hate her for being unfairly talented.

For the rest of us, outlines are essential.

My outlines tend to be insanely specific, because I’m very afraid of letting a single idea slip through the cracks, and I build on them over time as I get increasingly sure of where the story’s going. The early outlines tend to be extremely vague, with lots of “and then something happens” connecting major plot points. An example for a current WIP I’m doing right now:

(Seriously, “Julia and everything”? Future Forest is going to be so pissed at current Forest when she reaches that point and realizes she has no idea what she’s doing)

And as the story starts to take shape and a plot eventually forms -- they tend to take at least 10 chapters to materialize, but they do generally show up! One of the great things about fanfiction is that plot is largely optional, though, so no worries if you’re starting without a full story idea -- I find myself writing more and more details down, if for no other reason than that I want to make sure I remember what I was thinking when I finally get to that scene (because I have absolutely gotten to a point in a story and forgotten what I’d had planned. It sucks). Here’s an example from another fic with pretty significant spoilers if you can figure out which one it is oops:

I’d recommend keeping your outlines pretty simple, at least to start with: words and phrases, rather than whole-ass sentences like the above. The complexity will develop as your ideas do, so no need to wrack your brain trying to write out the entire story in bullet form.

I use the bolded ideas as stepping stones, more or less; I’ll write out the piece of the story that each line represents, which can be as little as a sentence or as much as 4 or more chapters (RIP my most recent long-running fic), then delete that line and move on to the next. 

Bolding them isn’t necessary, but it does make it easier to differentiate at a glance what needs to be written. If you keep everything in the same hundred-page Google Doc like I do, this is very important.

Your outline doesn’t have to be well-written, and you can 100% use fillers like “and then something happens here.” I do that all the time -- again, another completely different story:

Now, the vaguer things are, the more annoyed Future You will be when it comes time to write whatever it’s bulleting -- there’s a reason I haven’t updated this fic, and it’s because I have zero idea what the everliving fuck “Pinky-and-the-Brain-ing all over the place” means -- but it’s really good for when you’re first getting started sketching out the vague outline of your fic. The more you panic trying to figure out all the twists and details at the very start, the less likely you’re ever just going to sit down and write the damn thing.

(This might be why I don’t write plot-heavy stories, to be fair. Mystery writers very well might have to have it all planned out from the get-go, and I’d recommend chatting with someone who’s a bit less “coffeeshop AU” and a bit more Agatha Christie for that kind of advice.)

Knowing When to Post

There are people that exist, who have amazing self-control, who can wait until their entire story is written and then release it in sections, at regular intervals, until the story is completed.

I am not one of these people, though I try to be with literally every single fic I’ve ever written.

Personally, I do this until I reach a point where I get stuck and need validation, and then post what I have in a giant chunk and then don’t update it for several months. This is almost universally known as the worst way to write fanfics, both in terms of getting interaction from fans and keeping readers from wanting to kill you, and if you have the ability to write the entire thing and sit on it until it’s ready to be shared, you are a hero.

Alternatively, if you can actually stick to a set schedule of writing it as you go and still update with a new chapter every X days, you are not human and I’m terrified of you, because if you find a way to weaponize this power you will rule the world.

Honestly, a good rule of thumb? Post it when you’re ready for people to read it, whether it’s done or not. Not all works will get done, and it seems mean to deny people the delicious little stub you’ve written even if you’re not going to finish it. When you’re happy with what you have -- or are so tired of looking at it that you need to post it or you’ll throw your computer out the window -- just do it and let out a sigh of relief, then either take a few days before going back to writing or just jump in immediately like a goddamn masochist.

(I have tried to get far enough ahead that I can start posting the already-written stuff on a schedule, figuring by the time I’m caught up I’ll have completed the entire story and won’t have any awkward gaps. Ahahahahahahahahaha that has never once worked.)

If you’re not certain about your writing, get a beta! The fandom is full of talented people who’d be happy to read over your work, and if the person you ask doesn’t have the time or spoons, they probably have a few ideas of other people you could reach out to. You don’t need a beta, but it always makes me feel better to have another set of eyes look over my writing before posting, and my beta always catches things I completely missed. Plus, you get a nice taste of that sweet, sweet validation we all crave.

This . . . is a bad guide. Just in general. The advice is . . . not good, and I think it’s largely useless. But I keep trying to think of useful things to add to it and coming up empty, so I hope something in here helped, and if you’d like to bounce your ideas off of someone, feel free to shoot me a message! Talking ideas over with friends is a great way to flesh them out as well, and I am happy to be anyone’s fandom friend.

[upfrog]

So I finished reading Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality

This isn’t so much a review, as an attempt to cement some of my thoughts, and to at least write something down, the better that I will not look back in a year and not be able to remember a thing of what I thought of HPMOR. But overall... that was quite a thing.

HPMOR is long. Longer (by word count, which isn’t a perfect method of judging this) than War and Peace, the normal benchmark for “really long books”. I don’t consider getting through it to be an accomplishment, in the sense of say, getting through Homestuck, though maybe that’s only because I have tried, and failed to do the latter several times. It may also be because the plot is, for all it’s time travel and scientific tangents, less complex than Homestuck. I do not expect it to stick in my mind the way the canonical books do. While I do not consider them to be high literature, the canonical Harry Potter books, in addition to being entirely an entirely decent story, had a certain... Depth, of sorts, to them. Some of this may come from the midi-chlorian effect; the workings of magic are never discussed greatly in the canonical books, but much of HPMOR Harry’s efforts are devoted to understanding magic from a scientific perspective. I think it is more likely that it is because HPMOR simply had a more limited scope.

HPMOR set out to be a puzzle, an encouragement of rational thought patterns, a demonstration of how they might be applied to great benefit. And it does this. While potential plot holes and inconsistencies exist, it does this fairly well on the whole. But there isn’t that much beneath it, at least not that I have seen. It’s a good enough story, and the way it chooses to fill in the unfinished coloring book of Rowling’s world creates a compellingly interesting universe, albeit not a pleasant one. It has some good humor at some parts (more on that later), many clever moments, and some moments that are, frankly, just plain awesome, though these often contribute to the monstrously overpowered being that Harry is. Both versions shared the core theme of (spoiler warning: the rest of this paragraph. If you’re interested, I’d really advise you to just read it so that you don’t have the dramatic tension reduced) Harry ultimately triumphing by virtue of who he is. Triumphing by being, as we would describe it, a better human being than his opponent. The difference is that in the canonical books, this is a much more theological process. By the final book, Rowling is pretty much bashing us over the head with a crucifix. I still maintain that, unless the hill you wish to die on is unmarried teen snogging, declaring Harry Potter as heresy for the simple fact that it includes magic is to foolishly ignore the veritable flood of Christian messaging the books contain. I thought I’d made a post about that, but apparently not, so I’ll divert myself to that briefly. 

Spoilers for the whole canonical Harry Potter main series in the following paragraph:

The entire story is based on an innocent child who was permitted to live because of the intensely real power and protection offered by the selfless sacrifice of another to protect said child. So there, straight off the bat, right in the premise. And then in the 7th book, Harry does the exact same thing, but more so, and pretty much pulls an Aslan, “dying” willingly to protect others, but not by this being truly killed. And it’s not like the Christian messaging in Narnia is obscure. And at the end of the first Harry Potter book, Dumbledore, the most “good guy” character that the series has to offer goes off explaining how “to the well organized mind, death is but the next great adventure”. Then, in no particular order, having not done anything like a read through specifically looking out for these: the primacy of the soul over the physical, the specifically soul-corrupting nature of evil and killing, the power of redemption and forgiveness, the ultimate triumph of good over evil, the concept of powers that, while attainable, will damage your soul forever, and the existence of life after death. Anyway, back to the main matter.

HPMOR lacks any semblance of this depth (not that this is the deepest thing in the world mind), at least that I have been able to detect, and this makes it a lesser story to me.

The first ten or so chapters of HPMOR were pretty great as comedy. Harry constantly befuddling the wizarding world, and being befuddled by it, makes for some great laughs. Later on it undergoes a pretty significant tone change, and I had a very hard time adjusting to it, and enjoying the latter portion (which makes up most of the fic) for what it is. I did ultimately reach that point, but it was jarring.

This fic has some pretty obscure references. Have any of y’all read “Negima!?”? The author of this fic has. ( or at least, he’s watched some of the show.) It also had an offhanded reference to Madoka Magica, which is less obscure, but I still appreciate it. 

HPMOR Harry just keeps on getting more and more powers. (potential spoilers ahead, less severe): It seems like every month he’s making some discovery of how to do something that the entire wizarding world “knows” is totally impossible. It makes a certain sense, in context, but it certainly does contribute to some Mary Sue-like feeling. But on the other hand, Harry routinely oversteps his cleverness, failing to think things through enough, missing obvious points that would have counter-indicated his action. And some of the consequences are rather severe, so I don’t knock too many points off for it. Harry is powerful, but he is also rather a child genius in this telling, and all things considered, most of his discoveries don’t seem too ridiculous. 

I earlier mentioned that the world HPMOR painted was rather interesting. It (mostly) doesn’t directly contradict the wizarding world as portrayed in the common, but it does color in many of the blanks, and this author paints in dark colors. Wizarding britain, as portrayed in HPMOR, would be considered barbaric to most of the people reading this. Or perhaps it would merely be considered “medieval”. It certainly has some things going for it. It is portrayed as a place with relatively little history of institutional sexism, or racism amongst wizards. Even the stodgiest pure bloods find it silly to discriminate based on skin color. Wizarding Britain sees little wrong with homosexuality, and it is entirely un-taboo. But things get worse from there.

It is implied, or at least, I took away the message from my last reading some years ago, that the Wizarding power structure in the canonical books is... incompetent. That the benchmark of being a “fully qualified” witch or wizard does not in fact entail very much true competency, and many of the more powerful figures are somewhat dumb. HPMOR confirms this, and brings it into the light, offering more examples of just how useless most wizards are in matters non-magical. Wizarding Britain is controlled by an incompetent government, which is primarily controlled by one or several “Noble and Most Ancient House(s)”. The extent of Lucius Malfoy’s influence is brought up often in the canonical books, and the same is true here. This is a world where (minor spoiler for something before chapter 10-ish) a young noble raping a girl, and yes, girl is the proper noun here, repeatedly, and getting away with it indefinitely, is an open secret. Where this young noble’s security is secured by: a) the victim and her families’ fear of his familial power, b) memory charms, and c) a court system where the interests of the Noble Houses are often a primary concern. 

Wizarding news is minimal, and it seems to primarily toe the ministry (which is to say, aristocratic) line, save for the Quibbler, which... on the whole, isn’t great news either. There is no particular concept of a fair trial at play in this world, especially if your crime was committed against a noble house. Less than three days investigation is considered enough to go from crime to a sentence of ten years in Azkaban. And then there’s Azkaban itself. For all it is a prominent feature in the books, and Dumbledore’s opposition to it is often mentioned, Azkaban doesn’t get much light shone on it in the canonical books. This is likely in part because it is such an incredibly, ridiculously cruel place that it becomes very difficult for many of us muggles to imagine it being an appropriate punishment for anyone. I won’t go into great detail, but there are very few crimes capable of causing enough pain that, even working from a perspective of vengeance, instead of justice or rehabilitation, it becomes very difficult to mathematically justify Azkaban. 

To clarify, by mathematically justify, I mean, what percent of the pain a criminal inflicts by his misdeed can fairly be unleashed upon the criminal as punishment. Is a beating a proper punishment for beating someone? What about two beatings? Or three? At what point does the severity of the punishment become so much greater than that of the crime that it stops being sensible? If you slapped me, would I, absent any concerns about self defense or ensuring my future safety, be justified in immediately shooting you? Or boiling you? Or beating you to death? The murders who are so successful that we stop calling them murders and start calling them statesmen might have a shot at a mathematically (if not necessarily ethically) justifiable cell in Azkaban. For everyone else, it’s pretty difficult. And in both versions of the story, wizarding justice is NOT perfect. Innocent people go to Azkaban, and are exposed to this as well. Azkaban is pretty terrible, and most of the wizarding world just sort of... accepts it.

Anyway, I probably have more to say, but I really need to wrap this up. This probably wasn’t very coherent, so sorry about that. 

[sesshatetsuko]

Rurouni Kenshin Fanfiction : See you in life Beyond -Chapter 4-

Summary : For as long as he remembers, life had never been easy for him. So when carefully-buried memories are brutally awakened, the worst can happen... * A canon post-Jinchuu story, depicting how Kenshin tries to survive his inner demons, and how he and Kaoru finally became a family...* (rated M)

To find previous chapters, just search for #fanfiction on this blog!

Sitting in seiza at the end of the training room so as not to disturb the endless flow of shinai, the wanderer was watching attentively the activity under his eyes. Kaoru was training students of Maekawa dojo in addition to her own. As a result Yahiko was redoubling of effort, proud of his master's teachings and eager to show his technical superiority against the opposing school. Sweat, quick gestures and kiai cries filled the air.

Giving lessons for another dojo allowed the young kendoka to support as much as possible the needs of the house, helped in this task by her only disciple, who although unable to pay for his lessons participated in living together by bringing a little money from his work at the Akabeko. Sanosuke, on his side, sometimes helped as a docker at Yokohama Port, his imposing physique allowing him to carry heavy loads. Thanks to this livelihood he was able to finance things like his nocturnal escapades. Above that, he had recently developed a strange fascination for ships coming back from abroad, and all the stories of unknown countries swimming with them...

Only Kenshin, unemployed, was out of step compared to his young companions.

Having always experienced poverty as a child and then wandered for more than 10 years as a penniless and homeless wanderer did not do anything to help things. He had lived so long without thinking about the next day, indifferent to the fact that his own death could happen from one moment to another, that changing his way of life now that he had settled at Kamiya dojo was very difficult. In fact, he had to relearn everything, having absolutely no personal reference of standard family life. Thus, if surviving had become one of his specialties, money remained a mysterious data for him, since absent during most of his existence. As a result, he had trouble caring for it, associating it personally neither with need nor with happiness.

Kaoru seemed to understand this, since she never pushed him in that direction, and for this he was secretly grateful to her. He had tried to look into it, but ... what could he do? His level of writing and reading was barely passable and he had only learned the art of the katana, developed more particularly that of murder, a perfectly useless competence in this new Meiji era he had sweated blood and tears to build. He did not want to transmit the Hiten Mitsurugi (his own youthful failure regarding the values that his teacher wanted to teach him was damaging enough), and the professions of policeman or bodyguard had proven to be a formidable stimulant for his innate assassin reflexes that he desperately tried to bury. Not to mention the fact that he did not like to go away of the dojo for a long time after the traumatic incident of Enishi, and that sometime, his body began to make him pay for all of his swordsmanship years...

Finally, this one might not be suitable for this new era ...

He focused his gaze again on the young students before him, and on the life that emerged from them. Basically it did not matter to him to be obsolete, if these people could know the happiness of a peaceful life. That was the reason he had fought for and would fight again.

Kaoru was in the center of the room, and she was performing a series of kata demonstrations for her students. She was lifting her shinai at full speed, hitting her arms and hips in different directions, her feet resting each time in very particular points on the ground. These were traditionally rigorously codified exercises where each gesture mattered.

Although he had initially come to see her out of sheer curiosity when he arrived at the dojo, Kenshin's eyes had become much less innocent since he had begun to develop feelings for her. Because if the young woman was just emerging from adolescence, his own adult life was already well under way, and his body was often painfully reminding him of that... which had earned him to this day many cold water buckets, meditation sessions and other nocturnal baths. Worse, since he had started courting her without allowing himself to touch her, training sessions had literally turned to torture. To see her waving fiercely in this low necked man's outfit, sometimes revealing her tightly bandaged chest, was enough to bring his blood on fire. Moreover, her incredible agility made him wonder what kind of acrobatic positions they could u... -Kenshin took a deep, long breath.

This one will definitely have to go back to the river ...

Chasing these ideas did put his self-control yet strong at severe test. Himura was also careful not to stare at the young kendoka too intensely, for fear of frightening her with the ardor of his thoughts. Concealment was after all a specialty among assassins. Kaoru was executing the movements with precision, causing her slim yet robust body to be covered with a thin layer of sweat, which slid down her neck and lower.

The river, the cold river ...

While Kenshin was struggling internally, all the students seemed captivated by the current demonstration. The master of Kamiya Kasshin performed kendo with a grace and tenacity inherited from her father. All except a boy who was standing aside, a pout on his face, apparently bored by all fo this.

She seemed to have noticed it since it was to him that she spoke first.

"Gyôsei, come to reproduce the exercise, I will mime your partner"

" Why me?" He replied, exaggerating his grimace.

He doesn't seem to want to work this morning, his master noted irritably.

"You're lucky she's the one taking care of you," Yahiko replied, waving his shinai. If you don't want to do any more katas, I'll be happy to be your opponent and kick your ass, idiot! "

If slackers were people of the worst kind for the brave first Kamiya Kasshin disciple, men who were not interested in martial arts were just downright aliens.

"Stop arguing, boys!" Kaoru continued without losing her concentration. "Come on Gyôsei, put yourself in position. "

The young man reluctantly complied. He began to realize his series of movement awkwardly, the assistant master reproducing them identically in front of him, then quickly lost patience. Kaoru countered every shot, but Gyôsei became more and more abrupt and rough in his gestures. After a while, clearly angry at having been put to work and ridiculing himself in front of his classmates, he aimed a shoot that was not intended in the choreography directly at his teacher's ribs. The young woman, although surprised, saw his attempt and narrowly dodged him, but the aggressive gesture did not go unnoticed by the redhead sitting in the back of the room, who had suddenly raised his head.

"Well," Kaoru noted, "you still lack coordination ..."

"Pfff ... what's the use of learning these choreographies? It's not even a real fight! "

"It's you who are the real moron! argued Yahiko who was regretting not having previously kicked the damn boy's ass "If you cannot even master that you'll never be able to fight! These are the basics, the ba-si-cs! "

The two boys stared at each other fiercely. Meanwhile, the wanderer had risen from the corner of the room, unbeknownst to everyone.

"Gyôsei, right?" He said with a smile. "You do not seem to have really grasped the concept of kata. "

" ...What do you mean? "

Why does it matter to him? If even the housekeeper of the dojo comes to annoy me now! Gyôsei already had no desire to come to class, only obeying the order of his parents, but if in addition everyone fell on him ...

"That stroke at the ribs was not in the demonstration. "

The boy clenched his teeth, displeased that his little hanky-panky was noticed.

"So what... ? "

"This one will be your partner. "

Without waiting for his answer, the samurai grabbed a training sword hanging from the wall. Gyôsei looked at him with a hint of apprehension. He had never noticed how callused his hands were, nor that his usually high-pitched, even feminine voice could become so low. Not to mention, did he not have a sword hung on his hip? The impulsive boy was suddenly intimidated by this scarred man with tawny hair, who had suddenly decided to take part in their training...He had been coming at the Kamiya dojo for some time now and from memory this guy was only satisfied to observe them without speaking, occasionally smiling in a honeyed or even silly way. If only he had been told that this man could do something other than cooking or washing laundry...

"Are you sure, Kenshin?" The young kendoka wondered. "It's really not worth it ..."

This is the first time he ever gets involved in one of my classes! He has never accepted to train with me, or even to give advice to Yahiko before...

"This one insists. "

He put himself in position immediately, to everyone's surprise. The students had spontaneously formed a small circular group around them, curious to see the abilities of the redhead who lived with their master. As for Kaoru, she was as shocked as her students.

"Hajime! "

His voice was definitely not honeyed, and Gyosei felt for a moment the dark authority of a powerful ki. He resumed his kata, this time reproducing it very carefully. The wanderer dodged all his blows without any difficulty, not bothering to lift his shinai or even change the position of his body. Then, half-way through the exercise, at the exact moment when he had previously tried to hit the kendoka at her ribs, the samurai vigorously pressed his foot between the boy's and mowed his leg with a dry gesture. Gyôsei crashed face down at full speed.

"Kenshin!" Kaoru immediately glared daggers at him.

The boy got up with difficulty, surprised at his sudden fall, having seen absolutely nothing. He would probably be rewarded later by a good bump on the head.

"Hey, that -that was not planned!" He groaned, rubbing his chin where a small hematoma was already forming.

"You deserved it!" Replied Yahiko, openly laughing. He, too, had not missed the gesture tempted against his master just now.

"A kenjutsuka must be ready for any eventuality. "The redhead calmly replied, hanging up the shinai on the wall. "That's why it is helpful to be focused on any exercise, as basic as it appears. "

The former Master of the Kamiya Kasshin gave him a complicit but accusing look.

He did it on purpose ...

She came near the samurai, partly amused by his possessive reaction and partly annoyed by his hint of authority and the punitive gesture that followed against her disciple.

"Kenshin," she murmured, "I'm able to correct my own students by myself. "

"This one knows, that he does. "

"Don't try to play the innocent with me..."

"Oro? Please forgive me, Kaoru-dono. This one will resume cleaning." He said, scratching his head, adopting a resilient posture. Challenging a kendo teacher in her own school was never a good idea.

"You'd better! "

The class then resumed to a normal rhythm, and the pupils of the Maekawa dojo as much as the one of the Kamiya dojo, redoubled their ardor in the execution of their katas. Definitively, Gyôsei would be wary of housekeepers.

Despite the recent building of a railroad between the two cities, the Tôkaidô road, more than 500 kilometers long, linking Kyoto to Tokyo in more than 50 relays - without forgetting Osaka and Kobe - was still very popular, mostly because modest people did not have enough money to buy a train ticket. It was dotted with thriving inns and abandoned checkpoints since the end of the Meiji era and the reunification of modern Japan. Its creation a long time ago had allowed the trade to prosper all along the coastal path, this axis having remained several centuries during the most traveled of Japan.

About two weeks of travel were needed to cross this road on foot without horse or palanquin, ridiculous and useless attributes in the eyes of the thirteenth master of the Hiten Mitsurugi, but by rushing only ten days would be necessary for the man to complete the journey. To have large legs and a developed musculature, fruits of a rigorous training for decades, had proved useful in many situations.

And the faster I will go, the faster I will get rid of this crowd ...

But while Hiko was only barely getting close to Kusatsu, second stop of the above-mentioned route, his sharp hearing suddenly detected the cry of a young boy, as if smothered by ...

...Leaves?

He moved instinctively towards a tree-lined massif at the entrance to the village. Above a Scots pine, half masked by thorny branches at almost 15 meters high, a small body was leaning dangerously towards the void.

"Help!"

"... what's your name, kid?" Hiko shouted from the bottom of the tree, very curious to know the name of the one who'd had the imbecility to climb higher than he knew how to get off.

"Toshiro, but ... HELP ME FINALLY! I'M GONNA FALL!"

The boy was desperately clinging at a medium-sized branch, which was already emitting dangerous crackling sounds. He was covered with green goads. Hiko found the scene in front of his eyes rather funny.

"Patience, kid, you don't have to be afraid when I'm right below you."

"Huh?"

With that, the master jumped several meters high, lifting the dust at his feet to land on a branch halfway from the child. He quickly made his way towards him, clutching the trunk with dexterity. Then came a moment when it was too thin to support his weight, and Hiko stopped his progress.

"Let yourself fall."

"No, I can't ..."

"Let yourself go, fool, I told you I was right below!"

"HUWAAAAAH"

The young boy did not have to execute the said move because the branch that supported him suddenly yielded, obliging the master to throw himself immediately in the emptiness to catch him. They landed on the ground with a crash but no damage, since Seijuro held the boy in his arms with a perfect squatting position. You don't become thirteenth master of Hiten Mitsurugi for nothing, see.

He laid the child on the ground and dusted his coat disdainfully.

"So, Toshiro... what kind of stupid reason did cross your mind to have you climbing on a tree ten times higher than you?"

Not that I really care about it...

Toshiro waited a few moments to regain his breath and his balance, then devoured with an indescribable intense gaze the imposing brown man in a white cape that had so spectacularly restrained his fall.

"It's my dog, Mochi... He ran away several weeks ago, and since then we've been staying at the hostel in order to find him ..."

The boy's face darkened sadly. From Hiko's point of view, he was only going to babycry.

They must have money to afford themselves to be stuck here for so long, just for an animal ... I guess these are the benefits of this carefree Meiji era.

"..You know, everyone loves him at home, he's part of our family. I thought climbing up this tree would give me a better view of the valley ..."

"It was a silly idea."

"He was scared by that damn raven!" continued the boy, as if to defend himself. "Mochi goes crazy every time he sees one ; you see, a bird attacked him when he was a puppy, and since then he has always been afraid of it!"

Stupid master, stupid dog ...

"I did not ask you for so much information ..." Hiko pointed out, his annoyance growing.

Toshiro suddenly looked up at his savior.

"Oh, I'm so rude ... You helped me, and I don't even know your name?"

"Niitsu Kakunoshin ... I'm a potter."

Even to a child, Seijuro Hiko did not reveal his true identity. Never. Precaution of thirteenth Hiten Mitsurugi's master, a school that had survived for several centuries with only one disciple and one name.

"Po ... potter?"

Toshiro could not believe his ears. This man was so muscular and agile ... Potters suddenly rose high in his esteem.

"Please come to the inn with me. My parents and my little sister are there and my father is an art dealer, he will surely give you money to thank you."

"That's nice, kid, but I'm in a hurry."

Hiko had no desire to hang out in this rotten shed, let alone meet other people.

"Just be careful next time."

"Yes sir!"

Toshiro greeted the great ceramist very low, who went on his way as quickly as possible, silently muttering against reckless kids climbing the trees and wasting his time. One stupid apprentice was enough.

Saito was fuming. They had a lot of trouble collecting data on this case, and he still had no tangible track. During these last weeks the agents deployed to the field had returned once again with shreds of information without concrete link to each other. Children were disappearing, mainly in remote villages and poor areas of Japan. In most cases they were orphans, making it hard to identify and even account for them. Nobody claimed their bodies, and few people cared about them.

The number of disappearances is probably wildly underestimated ...

He took a puff from his cigarette. A dirty habit inherited from Westerners.

They may simply have died of starvation and their corpses would have been left aside in the absence of a loved one to bury them.

Unfortunately, some disappearances were oddly localized. And Saito did not believe in coincidences.

What use would a group of kids without connection be?

This case did not make any sense. He was turning that same question again and again in his mind, spinning impatiently around his desk. Outside his window, afar in his visual field a little girl was holding a puppy on a leash. An Akita, probably, judging by its already imposing size despite its young age. It was then that he was wandering on this innocuous reflection that an unhealthy idea began to germinate in his mind...

...A human trafficking?

They were roaming into the streets of former Edo, still noisy despite the late hour. One of the pleasant changes of this new era, in comparison with the desperately empty alleys of Kyoto as soon as the day was off during Bakumatsu, noted the wanderer. Night had fallen and the red glow of Izakaya's lanterns alternated with the fleeting flashes of candles entrenched inside the intimate houses of wood and clay. Their path consisted of wide, animated passages as much as of narrow lanes, where the single shadow of the crescent moon gave the high stone walls an almost threatening look. The brawler had his hands in his pockets and was chatting about futile things on the way : this cuttie here had pretty eyes, the fish dealer there yet open rather looked like he was selling junk... He was smiling while walking, obviously relaxed, stretching his long legs covered with badly trimmed trousers to the front. The other man, smaller and older, remained silent most of the time, but was following him at a good pace. With his face somewhat lowered, only the slight wind that sometimes played among its red strands could discover his deep azure eyes.

It had become one of their rituals. Strange, how a friendship can be forged between two persons of a different generation, bound by a visceral fighting instinct and the trials that life had put in their path. Going out in such a regular basis was granting them with privileged moments between friends, far from the sometimes suffocating female agitation of the dojo where the samurai lived.

"... Hey, are ya even listenin' to me when I speak?"

He raised his head, suddenly thrown out of his thoughts.

"Gomenasai Sanosuke..."

The samurai let his words linger in the fresh air of spring. His eyes were still dark.

Kenshin doesn't seem like himself tonight... my job to cheer him up!

Sanosuke Sagara logically decided to take his mind off the brooding by using the best way he knew, a method that he believed had been proven in any age and any individual.

"Well, whaddya think about givin' a good hit into a woman tonight?"

"ORO?"

The wanderer gave him a meaningful, almost comical glare.

"This one does not value violence against women." he said seriously.

"Oh my, you're so straight, Kenshin! Relax a little!" He gave him a big pat on the back. "I only meant to have sex with a woman, if ya see what I'm talkin' about!"

"Oro? This one still does not see the interest, that he does." The samurai blushed discreetly, but seemed however to consider the proposition for brief a moment. "Besides, Kaoru-dono would be furious ..."

"Kami-sama, how can ya be so austere... Okay, let's have a drink instead!"

They were approaching a place with warmer vibes. Sanosuke went on with an exaggerated cheering tone :

"This spot will be perfect!"

He lowered his head and lifted the entrance's curtain of the small building which seemed almost out of time. The atmosphere was more hectic inside than outside - not to mention noisy. As soon as they had taken their seats near a window, the two buddies were knocking back fermented rice beverage shots together, one of the rare local alcohol on this isolated island of the Far East.

"Ya don't speak much tonight." He corrected himself. "I mean, ya're chattin' even less than usual."

The redhead sighed, annoyed by this display of hidden questions, before swallowing his saké.

"Sano... This one is just a bit tired, that's all."

With an absent gesture he handed the cup to his friend anew.

"I'm already used to do most of the talkin'," he continued, serving him, "but now that's a one-way dialogue."

Without paying more attention to his remarks, Kenshin emptied this new cup in one gulp, his cerulean gaze still lost on the outside agitation. Sanosuke stared at him, dumbfounded.

"And ya have a hellish thirst tonight, nothin' to compare with that fuckin' restrained behavior ya have with Jou-chan or the others."

"Ah, sorry..." He scratched the back of his head and forced a smile as he turned back to his friend.

"Give up the excuses, these drink're on me for once;" he smiled, elbowing the red-haired, "Want another?"

"Huh, I guess..."

He hesitated, then handed his glass again. It was like any other promptly emptied, but his attention never truly returned to the current conversation.

Sanosuke was peering at him silently. He knew that if the wanderer did not want to talk he would get absolutely nothing from him. This man could have a head harder than steel and was naturally not eager to confide. Although it was annoying him strongly (he was officially impatient), he had learned over years to get the best of it : it was better to spend a good time together and leave those problems until later on when he would feel ready to speak - if such a moment ever existed in this life. That's why he maintained the conversation on his own, Kenshin just nodding now and again.

The smell of saké was surrounding the small building enclosed between two other inns. Its wooden tables, worn but friendly, were covered with sticky and odorous traces resulting from the strong passage of individuals throughout the day. The evening continued until numerous bottles were emptied. Nothing unusual for the fighter accustomed to this kind of trip, but much more unnatural for his companion who appreciated so much self-control. He had swallowed the majority of the drinks served without really paying attention, under the half-amused eye of his friend.

Yep, definitely, somethin's wrong.

"... ya better stop here, don't ya think?"

It did not sound like the brawler at all to restrain others' consumption, but something didn't seem right in the samurai's behavior tonight, and he did not like it.

"Hmm." Kenshin put his glass down, awkwardly dropping his elbow on the table. "Let's go."

He got up with the help of his left arm and crossed the door, head bowed.

Sanosuke was following him closely. The samurai had a slightly feverish and unsteady walk. For an innocent eye his balance would seem perfectly normal, but for the trained eye of someone who knew the precise and agile moves of the fighter like the back of his hand, there was no doubt about it : he was dead drunk.

Sanosuke took place at his side while discreetly positioning himself in the background to be able to catch him in case of fall.

"I never saw ya drink this much..."

"Gomenasai" he mumbled

"Stop apologizing all the time, it's becomin' really annoyin' t-"

The wanderer suddenly lost his balance, stumbling on a misplaced pebble. Sanosuke narrowly caught him by placing his arm under his belly.

"Baka, I'll take you back to the dojo."

"... Arigato, S-Sano"

The fighter put his arms around his friend's shoulders, and while supporting most of his weight, walked on the pavement carefully. The wind that had gotten colder by now was playing melody against the surrounding silence, between the leaves of trees barely lit by the nocturnal star. They stopped several times on the way so that the redhead could empty the contents of his stomach, implicitly helped by his friend to stabilize him. As he watched the samurai folded in half, his hair stuck to his face, Sanosuke was thoughtful.

No more words were exchanged that night between the two men. Only the sound of occasional regurgitation and settas hitting the ground punctuated their march.

Next chapter : Enemy of my enemy

[calleo-bricriu]

Well, the book is finally getting into the title’s namesake, even if the definition of “pervert” so far is pretty tame.

This book, if you’ve missed it so far.

Oh, and even though I didn’t bother getting into chapter 13, I did skim the first page and had one of those, “Well, there it is, what he’s been hinting at the entire time with the descriptions of Mizpra.”:  “Her maternal and reproductive instincts had been starved and enfeebled by a life of wrong training and misdirected study, augmented by the unphysiologic life of the disappointed femme sole, and environed by the false and unhealthy ideas of the New England women suffragists."

So, Mizpra, basically:

Anyway, on to the chapters I did force myself through.

Chapter 10!

Three week time skip where Leigh had himself locked away in what amounts to a drunk tank despite the fact that he hadn't gone out drinking.

Also, he apparently didn't eat OR drink (anything) for those three weeks which is one of those sorts of things that, if you tried to do it, you would actually die.

Alas, I'm not so lucky. Leigh is still alive to bore us for a few hundred more pages.

No surprise he's having wild ass mood swings, not eating or drinking or sleeping for three weeks. Surprised he remembers his name is Leigh at this point. Thankfully, the author has remembered and rambled on for a good ten or so pages about how we should all feel sorry for the tortured genius of Leigh.

I realised another reason I dislike Leigh: He smokes cigars, and I just hate the smell of cigar smoke so not only do I have to hear this moron pretend he's a genius philosopher in my own head as I read this book, I can now also smell him while he's doing it.

Anyway, skipping the dozens of pages that have nothing to do with the plot and are Leigh going on about how he thinks religious people are stupid and why he's so smart and so burdened under the weight of all of his absolute genius.

A genius wouldn't name their kid Mops, as an aside.

Skipping more pages of an irrelevant exchange between some guy outside trying to sneak some guy inside some alcohol.

Now we're up to some thing about a Catholic woman who's gone off the rails, is fully nude because that's a relevant thing to bring up you creep, and is very clearly mentally ill and is locked up. Of course they want Dr. Bell and Leigh (who, I might remind everyone at this point, is still technically inpatient at this place) to see her because geniuses or something.

Don't care, not relevant to the plot. We get it, Leigh, you're a genius.

"She then uttered a string of filthy pornographic oaths that would have put Emulphus to shame." and the author isn't going to share a single one with us.

So, Leigh the genius, declares this naked raving woman perfectly fine and says she--just needs a cold bath. Okay.

So that's the end of chapter ten.

Chapter 11:

Leigh is back home and his wife is not concerned abou tany of this, only "exceedingly interested" in hearing about his struggle with his "other self".

This makes her, in the author's judgement, reasonable.

Obera is, however, getting really antsy to get Mizpra killed, so there's that.

Rev. Bell comes to visit and as part of his groveling hello, "I have heard your pæans shouted from the housetops, and have been anxious to meet such a well-known man." I already dislike him.

Also, sin is the root cause of all illness. Of course Leigh had to go on and on about that so he could be sure it was still clear that he is, in fact, a genius in every way.

10 pages and he's still talking about that.

All right, so Leigh finally said one reasonable thing: "The words 'insanity' and 'insane' should disappear from our scientific vernacular, as they carry with them an atomsphere of medieval superstition and prejudice. There should be no distinction drawn between a person ill with typhoid fever, consumption, or any other physical disease and one ill from disease of the brain; it is only a difference of the organ affected."

Probably the only reasonable thing he'll say.

So, he finally shuts up and Rev. Bald tries to ask him to hang out outside of the house sometime and gets immediately shut down by Obera going with, "Dr. Newcomber prefers his home and books," and he just sort of parrots that back as well.

Obera asks Leigh what he thought of Rev. Bald and gets, "He is an ecclesiastical bunco steerer," and she tells him he's not allowed to hang out with the guy because of--the thing with Mizpra trying to straight up murder Mops.

He tells Obera not to blame Mizpra because "she is not morally responsible" due to being mentally ill, which is all good and well, but she did try to murder a child and should maybe be made to take a tiny bit of responsibility for that.

His solution is to send Obera and Mops away. Cool.

Dr. Bell visits the next morning to tell him the hysterical naked woman ran off with "our big Swede, Andersen. He was a mere animal. We kept him under control by giving him the furnaces to attend".

Turns out, the naked raving woman was relevant as it was Leigh's sister, Marcia and he's not--at all concerned by any of this, just, "Eh, oh yeah, I forgot to mention, she's my sister and she's fucking bonkers, it's no big deal."

And that's chapter 11.

Back to Mizpra for Chapter 12.

"To stand upon the wreck of her brothers and sisters, offering them enough assistance to prolong their misery, was her ambition." Settle down a little Mizpra.

She decides they should all go to Chicago to look at real estate instead of to California, then sort of goes on for awhile about how real estate agents are all crooks.

Long rambling introspection to determine that her mother's side of the family "suffered from weak arteries in advanced years" (like everyone else?) which made her prone to having a stroke or three and that she's arthritic.

So the switch to going to Chicago was to "keep her mother in a low altitude for a few days, then rush her rapidly up the Rockies" hoping to trigger a stroke that would HOPEFULLY not be fatal and if she did die, oh well, can't murder someone by stroke, so she'd not be arrested.

"She must witness torture and cause pain. This was her life." That's the intro for a good few pages of Mizpra thinking over all sorts of torture scenes from mythology which I'm sure are meant to be shocking but the author is what the author is and there's not much for detail. You'd get more detail reading the actual myths.

At the end of that she decides not to throw diphtheria infected toys at Mops anymore and she's going to aim straight at Obera with some method she'd seen but we're not told yet.

Great.

Oh, it's just anthrax.

I was hoping for something a little more creative than more small scale biological warfare.

Trying to murder people by sending disease via post seems to be some sort of fetish for Mizpra.

By now Burke is getting kind of annoyed that Mizpra is treating him like a secretary and errand boy but, honestly Burke, she basically told you that was the arrangement from the start, why are you surprised?

"Burke Wood was one of those unfortunate bipeds whom men despise, women hate, and the females of pervasive instincts employ as useful adjuncts to their much-scorned skirts." Well, we all know what the author thinks of Burke now. Also, all we’ve seen from Burke so far is that he’s a genuinely decent guy who adores Mizpra.

So mom comes in and asks Mizpra if she thinks she's treating that poor idiot Burke correctly and we find out that she somehow made this man with no training her LAWYER not just her secretary. Anyway, her mother reminds her if she keeps being nasty to him he's probably just going to leave her.

Then it just gets weird with her mom trying to not so subtly hint she needs to start with the sex where Burke is concerned and reminds Mizpra that she has "sex instincts".

Not the sort of conversation I'd want to have with my mother and, apparently, Mizpra doesn't want to have it with hers either. She brushes it off and tries to change the topic but this is what mother wants to talk about tonight so here we go.

"I preferred to see you enthusiastic over the dissection of a cat rather than playing with feminine foibles," what is this family even? Well, she regrets doing that now because apparently she's even noticing that Mizpra has some--interesting--obsessions.

Now even her mother is remarking on Mizpra's big, coarse, bony, manly hands. No wonder Mizpra has bizarre anger issues.

Mother figures out, finally, that Mizpra doesn't love Burke and isn't even remotely attracted to him like everyone but her and Burke figured that out at the wedding.

What mom's concerned about is that Mizpra doesn't want to fuck Burke; mom needs to mind her business, and this is not her business.

The problem, of course, is that Mizpra has had TOO MUCH education not that all we've seen of her is everyone else going on about how ugly and mannish she is.

I don't really want to read this old woman lecturing Mizpra on how she needs to fuck more then maybe she'd be happier.

So Burke interrupts them as Mizpra sent him to pick out some books she might like to read and pack the rest, and he interrupted to ask about one and we find out that if the "History of Flagellation does not meet with your approval, then it is because you do not understand the degredation of the woman of the past and my efforts for her enthronment in the future."

She then orders him to sit down then just kind of jerks his head back (with those big ol' coarse, manly hands of hers) and STARES at him before kind of sarcastically asking if he sees "anything but love" in her eyes then gives some, "Sorry if I've been cruel, I'm worried about my mother."

...then she tries to hypnotise him to sleep only she does it...loudly. While holding his eyes shut with her fingers.

To test some of that, she takes her scarf pin (which was holding together her, of course, “masculine necktie”) and jabs him in the forehead with it, then pierces his ears with it, then opened one eye and just jabbed her finger onto it so apparently holding someone's eyes shut then loudly commanding them to--be hypnotised works.

On Burke, at least.

She could have given him earrings or something.

Anyway, she then stabs the pin through his entire cheek then decided this is all making her way too horny and runs off to the sink to dunk her entire head into cold water.

So Mizpra's got a fetish.

For stabbing sleeping men with scarf pins.

I'm going to just stop here.