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literatikoo · 4 years ago

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Lane Kim deserved better

I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I would only write Lane Kim meta when I am very very angry because I need to be powered by spite and petty energy to unravel exactly how much of a disservice this show was to Lane and by extension any Asian kid with a similar life. And, well, it's happening now, so buckle up kids, this is going to be a loooong ride because I have a lot to say.

Before we start on the negative aspects, the show got a lot of things about Lane right, which is why I care so much about her character. Yes, ASP obviously didn't know how to write a POC experience and it's seen in the way some very harmful stereotypes were propagated (the tiger mom trope, Mrs Kim's religious beliefs, the depiction of the Kim extended family etc) but at the same time Lane was beautifully written as a character, unlike her plot which left much to be desired. Lane Kim was an Asian girl with rock n roll dreams who had an extremely fraught relationship with her mother and had to fight for even a semblance of independence. And I hate to say it but a lot of daughters of Asian households are forced to hide a part of themselves from their families, so Lane's story was authentic.

Not only was Lane amazing as an individual, she was also a great friend. She was the only one who was really in Rory's corner; she never judged her and supported all of Rory's relationships (my favourite example of this is when she barely tolerated Jess in S2/3 and then did a complete 180 like 5 episodes later, all because Rory decided to finally accept she liked him). Lane never pointed out what Rory was doing wrong not because she was afraid of doing so but because the two of them had been friends for years and Lane believed that Rory would figure it out one day. Lane shows this unconditional kindness not only to Rory but to everyone. She takes in her Korean cousin and teaches her to have fun even when she's afraid that Mrs Kim has replaced her, she lets Gil be in the band because she empathises with him, she takes care of the band and prevents it from breaking up multiple times. And these are only a few examples of Lane being the kindest character on GG.

One of the best things in Gilmore Girls is that the most unproblematic, amazing guy is given to Lane. Dave Rygalski is the best love interest on the show hands down (Sorry to my boy Jess but Dave was LEAGUES ahead of him at 17) and Lane definitely deserved someone like that. Their story was adorable and I would have loved for them to be endgame. However, what grates me is that when I see people talking about Lane "deserving better," it's usually about Dave vs Zach. When Lane actually deserved better as a WHOLE and not only in terms of love interests. I always thought it made more sense for her to end up alone at the end of the og series. Because Lane was a person who craved independence and she was not going to get that while tied to some guy (even if that guy is boyfriend extraordinaire, Dave Rygalski). It's even worse when we see that Lane is the only female character on the show to be treated this way. Rory rejects marriage for her career while Lane ends up with marriage as her storyline. Lorelai and Luke get back together but their relationship is still left open ended, though arguably it would've made more sense if they got married when Lane and Zach did. Paris gets into Harvard Medical school and gets a great relationship, similarly Sookie gets the family she wanted and continues to be amazing at her job. But Lane... god Lane is the only one without an open ending, without any space for speculation of where her life might lead her. Not only did they marry her off, they also gave her a terrible first time and twins, effectively locking her to Stars Hollow. The show even cut down all hope of her being a rock n roll mom as one of her S7 storylines is choosing the kids over going on tour with Zach. She doesn't get to be her own person for more than ONE season; she's stuck with being a daughter and then a wife and then a mother.

Something else that angers me about Lane's storyline is that we never really get to see how badly her relationship with her mom affects her. Don't get me wrong, I adore Mrs Kim's redemption arc and I think it was beautifully juxtaposed to Lorelai and Rory's crumbling relationship, but having a mother like that is hard. Not only did Lane have to hide 90% of her personality from Mrs Kim but she also lived with the fact that one day she might have to choose between her dreams and her mother. In the end, Mrs Kim makes that choice for her and deals with it by kicking Lane out in S4, and yet we never really see how that negatively affects Lane. Hell, Jess acts like a broody teen for two seasons, Rory wastes six months of her life away at the DAR and they both come out of it successfully. Lane gets kicked out, figures out her own living conditions, gets a job, works insanely hard for her band and... ends up having to give her dreams up completely.

Lane and Paris shared a lot of similarities too, even if they both had different friendships with Rory. They both came from terrible families and looked to Lorelai as a mother figure, they both cared deeply for Rory, and they were both incredibly passionate about their careers. Paris made calendars and flashcards and went crazy studying for both pre med and pre law. Lane was a walking, talking music encyclopaedia, she bought CDs obsessively and organised them by genre under her floorboards, she taught herself to play the drums and then found a band to play for. And yet... only Paris becomes successful in the end, whereas Lane takes over Kim's antiques. Lane was still a musician in AYITL and she can be rock n roll even with kids but this is all hypothetical and we never see it on the show.

There is a lot of terrible, lazy writing on the show and a lot of characters get ruined because of it but with Lane, her character stays the same, they just ruin everything else for her. I think she'll be an amazing mom and will probably make her best out of doing music casually. But the writers also took something so special and destroyed it just because Lane stopped being as important to the plot as she was in seasons 1-3. Lane and Rory drifting a little after Rory leaves for Yale makes perfect sense, that's just how relationships are, always changing. And yet as Lane's importance to Rory decreased so did her importance to the writers.

Lane wasn't the kind of character that needed character development or a redeeming character arc- she was never a bad person and nothing about her had to be fixed, unlike Jess or even Paris. All she really needed was for her dreams to come true because for the first 4 seasons her dreams were the biggest fixture of her personality. Like how Jess needed to overcome his trauma and Rory needed to figure out where she fit in and Paris needed to become a girlboss, Lane needed to realise her dreams because that's where her arc was leading her. But it just didn't happen. Instead, Lane becomes 2-dimensional; a large part of her screentime is taken up by Zach problems, her dreams fall flat and she becomes tied to Stars Hollow for the rest of her life. Not to mention we see less of Lane in favour of Logan and the dickhead posse.

This is not me hating on all the other characters I've mentioned in this meta, I'm just pointing out the lack of respect the writers have for Lane in comparison to all these other people who fulfilled the role they were made for. Why would you write Lane to have all these dreams and make her struggle so hard for 4 seasons just to smash them to pieces? And why is it that one of the only POC characters on this show is treated like this?

And you can't tell me the writers didn't know what they were doing, not when this is a direct quote from Lane in S7:

"It was such a small window -- a peephole, really. For years, I was this repressed kid, and then there was the briefest of windows. And then -- slam. All of a sudden, I'm this overburdened mother. I barely got to do it, Zach. I barely got the chance to be a person."

#gilmore girls #gilmore girls meta #lane kim #lane kim meta #mrs kim #rory gilmore #jess mariano #lorelai gilmore #paris geller #lane x dave #amy sherman palladino #anti lane x zach #anti zach van gerbig #in the end paris and rory got a lot of their opportunities because they are rich privileged white women #and if lane got opportunities like that she would’ve grown wildly successful #i always saw paris as a raging lesbian #and yet!! her and doyle's divorce meant less to me than zach and lane's

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iamthenightcolormeblack · 4 years ago

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My Experience with Jane Austen Part 2: Reading the Books

In part one I laid out which books I read, which ones were my favorites and least favorites, and the adaptations I've seen. Now I'd like to talk about my reading experience.

Disclaimer: I’m not an expert, just a casual reader sharing some observations, feel free to correct me if I get some details wrong. Out of the books I’ve read I’m most familiar with Pride and Prejudice.

Let's face it. Reading Austen can be challenging and I understand why some people dislike Austen.

It's easy to perceive her novels as "boring" because on a surface level, not much happens. The characters are well-off people (in the upper half of society) who spend their time at home or traveling between social calls and it's easy to dismiss their conflicts as "first world issues." Settings are often indoors, reflecting how "confined and unvarying" the lives of the rich (especially women) were. The plots often move forward through dialogue or conversations rather than big dramatic events. The focus on marriage can also make the stories feel like antiquated relics of the past and can be hard to relate to.

The writing style is also different. There isn't much dialogue at times because Austen slips in lots of very subtle commentary or prefers to describe a character's external appearance or characteristics. Often big events like proposals are described briefly after they happen rather than during, which can make the story feel rather "dry." The books are narrated in third person and sometimes there is unreliable narration (Pride and Prejudice) where we get characters' multiple points of view, but all narrated in the third person as to give each one credibility and prove that it's hard to trust others. Austen's writing style means that readers have to fill in the blanks with their imagination. For example, she doesn't give exact physical descriptions of her characters, often relying on general characteristics like "tall," "handsome," or "amiable." In my previous reviews of Pride and Prejudice adaptations, I explored that intentional ambiguity as a big reason why the character of Mr. Darcy is alluring--because the reader forms a personal connection with the character by sketching his portrait alongside Elizabeth. The characters (their physical appearance and some of their motivations) are purposely mysterious and while it gives the reader lots of opportunities for engaging with the text, without historical/literary context for "filling in the blanks" it's easy to see the characters as stiff mannequins in strange clothing rather than human beings.

Austen as a romance writer: Her romances don't always match up with our perception of what a romance should be. Some people start Austen expecting intense emotions and outbursts of passion but become disappointed when presented with formal courting and stately dances instead. Emotions are often veiled behind dialogue and for a first-time reader it can be challenging to see a romance developing. Most of the time readers have to rely on the clues given by Austen (descriptions of characters "blushing," looking "pale," or losing their composure) to detect the stirrings of love, but on a first reading it's difficult to do so when one's trying to figure out the plot and the characters. Finally, the dialogue can't always be taken literally; lots of people, including me, were disturbed when Mr. Knightley said he loved Emma since she was 13, but it was actually a joke made in response to something she said.

Her books are products of their time, and I sure am not an expert in Regency era economics or social norms. Sometimes the implications of certain actions can be lost on a reader if they don't know about the social norms of the time (I had no idea that Darcy following Elizabeth around, alone, on her favorite walk at Rosings was a sign of his love for her). Differences in social class are also very subtle and while one can generalize the characters as all "well-off" people, they are separated by many levels of hierarchy and their ideas about social position and status affect how they interact with others outside of their station. Darcy looks down upon those whom he perceives to be below him, and while Emma wants to make an advantageous match for Harriet, Harriet's lower social position means that Emma's schemes are not likely to work.

Because of the unique quirks within the novels, the reader is required to go beyond the surface level of plot and appearance and read between the lines to understand character motivations and actions. Without historical context (Regency era society having little social mobility, women having few legal rights and needing to make good marriages to secure material comfort) or literary context (the Enlightenment, 18th century Gothic novels referred to in Northanger Abbey, the birth of the novel, early Romantic writers just to name a bit) reading between the lines is nearly impossible.

So why do we read Austen? Below are my personal reasons.

The novels feature female heroines that have dignity and self-respect. It's significant that the stories focus on women who are trying to live according to their own values and speaking their own minds rather than acquiescing to societal dictates. Elizabeth Bennet is revolutionary in part because she wants a marriage based on mutual admiration and respect between two partners who know each other well, rather than an economic arrangement for a home. One could go on forever about how Austen is a feminist, but, the characters don't act like modern day feminists--they are still people of their time. However, it's easy to assume "feminist" heroines have to have "aggressive" characteristics (rebelling, fighting, defiance) in order to be labeled as "feminist." Importantly, Austen's women are allowed to be vulnerable (they cry or struggle with their emotions) without that being a shameful thing. We also see different types of personalities celebrated: Jane Bennet, who is kind to everyone, is seen in a positive light rather than shamed for seeing good in everyone. Anne Elliot, who is regarded as "old," becomes more beautiful as she gets older and has a second chance of love. Emma Woodhouse is spoiled yet confident and assertive and "not likely to be well-loved" (paraphrase of Austen's commentary on Emma). Fanny Price is a shy person but still achieves her happy ending. Her heroines are real people who have flaws and get opportunities to learn and grow so that they can make their aspirations reality.

A unique take on the universal conflict of humans versus society: Austen's characters are bound by social norms of etiquette as well as a value system that idolizes wealth and connections above all else. Persuasion is a great story in part because it focuses on how Anne Elliot learns to follow her heart and avoid being "persuaded" by others (and by society) to follow a path that will not make her happy. She's had to live with the regret of following the well-intentioned but harmful advice of others (Austen notes that Lady Russell values social connections too highly) over her own feelings and judgment, nearly losing her chance to be with Wentworth. The romances are significant in that they reinforce the dignity and self-respect of the female heroines. To a certain extent, Austen's stories are realistic in that marriage is necessary for material well-being in a patriarchal society that provides few ways for women to provide for themselves. But most importantly, she also sees marriage as a means of affirming self-respect and dignity of the women. It's one of the few parts of their lives over which they have any control because they get to choose whom they marry (for the most part, unless the marriage is arranged). Their wish to marry for love is revolutionary because they dare to aspire for something more than wealth. They want their future partners to be their equals, someone who they can love and respect (or be totally honest with them) and who will provide the same in return. This line from Emma (the 2020 movie adaptation) sums it up: "I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Fame I do not want. Fortune I do not want. Consequence I do not want."

The difference between outward appearances and inner character is a fascinating theme that appears in several Austen novels, most notably Pride and Prejudice, where Wickham and Darcy are foils of each other ("one has got all the goodness, the other all the appearance of it"). A lot of the villains in Austen's novels are those who deceive others about their motivations or lie for their own advantage. A common trait these villains all have is that they have a charming outward appearance that masks their true natures; they don't look ugly nor are they unpleasant (ex. Wickham having great social skills, Willoughby following the trope of the knight rescuing Marianne as the damsel in distress but leaving behind many broken hearts, Mr. Elliott being charming and knowing exactly what to say and how to act but actually a swindler). In contrast, the "good" characters are honest, even at the cost of social displeasure, use manners/etiquette to show respect rather than deceive people, and act selflessly to prove their worth (actions speak louder than words). It can be summed up this way: "don't judge a book by its cover."

Psychology: Austen very effectively described hindsight bias when sarcastically commenting on how the village of Meryton turned on Wickham after the elopement with Lydia, when previously they regarded him as an "angel of light." She also understands how easy it is to manipulate peoples' minds through confirmation bias (Wickham telling Elizabeth all the dirt about Darcy, which she eagerly takes because she hates Darcy so much). She also knows that emotions can override people's judgment: "angry people are not always wise." It's fun seeing how her people are social animals who make flawed judgments based on first impressions/emotions.

The secondary characters: Mr. Collins the clergyman is the most famous and he's so funny because of his arrogance in spite of his low social position (he keeps worshiping Lady Catherine instead of respecting God). Another great one is Sir Walter Elliott, a nobleman who is vain and constantly checks himself in the mirror (the most obvious social criticism). Also Austen understood how women insult each other: through passive aggression (ex. Caroline Bingley and Louisa Hurst talking negatively about Elizabeth behind her back). Austen's female bullies use their talent and "good breeding" to intimidate or shame others.

The romance (no explanation needed): "You pierce my soul. I am half-agony, half-hope. I have loved none but you." I love how the couples learn about each other through many spirited conversations and become slowly fascinated with each other until they realize they are in love and then have a conflict between formality and their growing passion...or they fall back in love with each other...or they are friends who slowly realize that they are more than friends...okay I'll stop talking nonsense I've been trying so hard to be semi-scholarly

Tags: @talkaustentome @austengivesmeserotonin @austengeek @princesssarisa @appleinducedsleep @colonelfitzwilliams

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tu-sugar-mami · 4 years ago

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You're an exchange student part 2:

You can read the first part here

You sit awkwardly on a gigantic chair while holding a lukewarm, barely touched cup of tea with both of your hands. Your back is straight and your shoulders are tense. You're starting to feel a bit sore after being still for a long time but you can't bring yourself to move.

After the incident with the first cultist —or what you still think is a cultist, the redhead girl— the tall lady took away your bug repelent and lighter along with your backpack, putting them on the top row of a nearby shelf where she was sure your little hands wouldn't reach.

If you're honest, you're not sure how you ended up sitting in the chair in front of the gigantic fireplace with many heavy comforters on you providing much needed warmth, feeling like an unexpected but not unwelcomed guest instead of the next sacrifice, but truly you're not complaining. This is thousand times better than to die outside from the cold.

As you sit there innocently waiting for the next important thing to happen, you can see that the two young women who arrived after you are exchanging a few words with Miss Tall Lady while taking off their coats to reveal several layers of winter clothes underneath. It's strange to you, but you pay it no mind. Every person takes different to the cold, after all.

The tall lady starts pacing back and forth in front of you heatedly talking, glancing at you once or twicce, and it's not hard for you to notice the strain and exasperation in her tone. Whatever she's saying sounds serious, but you can only make out a few words like 'offering' 'wrong' and 'mistake'.

Not knowing what to respond your find yourself distracted by the decor. Your eyes roaming every detail of the chiseled fireplace, taking in the most fine of the details. Then, is the stairwell that catches you attention and you can't help but to think it would be a great place to slide on a cardboard box.

"Are you listening to me?" A commanding voice and a snap of fingers brings your wandering mind down from the clouds and your neck snaps to face the woman. Her eyes are a beautiful golden, and you can't believe you didn't notice before.

"Your eyes are mesemerizing..." You say in your language, breathless, the words slipping past your lips almost as in a trance. Your gaze goes a bit down and your fingers twitch with a sudden desire to run them over those blood-red lips and feel for yourself if they are as soft as they look.

Miss Tall Lady looks thrown off by the foreign accent in your voice. It's definitely one she hadn't have the pleasure of hearing before and somehow makes her pause. Her mind might be playing tricks on her but why did whatever you said felt like some kind of compliment?

"Mother?" One of the young women from before asks tentatively. You don't know if you're right but you think the girls are the woman's daughters.

"Take this one to the library. I will follow shortly." Miss Tall Lady says before hurriedly walking away, though without losing her lady-like grace. Your eyes follow an hypnothic sway of hips going up the stairs before you sense a hand being extended towards you, expecting.

"Teacup, please." A blonde, very polite-looking young lady says. You jump a bit in your seat and inevitably blush, thinking for a moment you were caught in your respecful percieving, but to your relief the woman in front of you didn't seem to notice that.

"Uh..." You're not sure what Miss Blonde wants, but judging by the look she's giving you, you suppose she wants to greet you formally, so you do what any other civilized person would do. "Hi, it's a pleasure to meet you, miss." You say as you properly position the teacup in your left hand and with your right you shake hers. She's taken aback, but after a second of hesitation a smile breaks and graces her face.

A pair of loud laughs sound from behind the blonde. The young woman with the dark hair approaches you both from the side with an amused grin. "I like this one, Bels."

"An odd one indeed." Miss Blonde replies.

The last one of the unusual trio approaches on the other side of the blonde, the redhead you knocked out earlier. She looks at you intently. "Just so you know, no one besides mother sends me to sleep without consecuenses, little one." and punctuates her statement with a boop to your nose.

"Yes, yes, you'll get your revenge later, Daniela. Let's not keep Mother waiting." You're hoisted up by the hand. The warm comforters falling off your back and piling on the big chair, instantly making you shiver with the lack of heat. The three women walk away and you have no other option than to follow them.

The door is opened and inside you find yourelf gaping at the amount of books stacked on the big shelves. You can count with one hand the times you've been in a house that has its own library, but this one by far takes the cake. "Can i grab a book?" You ask to Miss Dark Hair, pointing to one of the nearestt bookshelves while giving your trademark Puppy Eyes.

"What? You want to read?"

"Book." You say, pointing again insistently to the bottom row of antique books.

"Sure, go have your fun while Mother arrives." Miss Blonde nods and you waste no time to grab the fattest, heaviest book of them all and sit on the floor with your legs crossed, only to sigh in dissapointment as the book is in a language you yet again can't understand. But as you flip the pages you can see that it has very depicting images of old eras that you find fascinating.

You don't notice the time passing as you 'read' undisturbingly, until a big hand is placed on your shoulder and you almost jump out of yor skin, closing the book with a snap, effectively losing the page where the images told you the process to make soap.

"Someone's been studying, i see." The Tall Lady from before stands before you in all her height and you cand help but to rake your gaze all over that goddess until you reach her eyes, not without your flushed face at the end. "So, i brought you here for a reason." She says while her hand motions you to stand. "Here at the Dimitrescu Castle we are in possesion of many doors to knowledge, which does include many books that offer some insight about other countries along with their tongues." You're nodding along whatever she's saying, not a single word ringing a bell in your understanding but to you it would be impolite to leave her hanging. Tall Lady stops in her tracks, in front of a very dusty bookshelf with even older books. Her hand goes from side to side selecting several books which she then hands to you.

You eye the books curiously and you notice that they're a vast collections of translating dictionaries, all varying in length and language. You kneel and start looking through them, being mindful of the most antique and delicate ones. You spot a thin one but with a very familiar dialect and you look up to give Tall Lady a toothy smile. "This one is! Uh... Wait, let's see." You open the book and look through the content searching for words. You stand and motion the lady to lean a bit and start pointing words.

'Student.'

'Cold.'

'Lost'

'Thankful."

As you keep making sense with the few words you're provided, the expression on the lady's face changes to a one of understanding and pity. She pulls out a very fancy-looking pair of glasses out from who knows where and takes the book from your hands, flipping through it's pages, looking for words of her own.

'Stay.'

'Dinner.'

'Sleep.'

'Rest.'

She points word by word and you get the hint. You nod eagerly and smile. Tall Lady smiles back at you and for a second there you feel your heart paralize. You could have sworn you saw a pair of unusually long canines on that pearly white smile. But surely you're just tired, right?

"Daniela, please take our guest to one of the spare rooms." The lady says gesturing to the red-haired young woman.

"Yes, Mother." And the next thing you know your being lead by the arm out of the room.

Once you're gone the tall lady's whole demeanor changes to one of anger and she let's out a frustrated sigh. "The nerve of those villagers. To send a foreigner as the monthly offering! No wonder why the man-thing you brought was insisting it was a mistake."

"They're not respecting the deal, Mother. Should i make them understand who they're dealing with?"

The Tall Lady's pointer finger rests on her lips as she thinks. "No. I'd like to have a word with the leader." She put the book on a the nearrest table with a bit too much force, snapping the poor table in half. "Bela, bring him to me."

---------

Part two is up. Less comedy, more plot. This isn't planned to be long so maybe this will only have one or two more chapters.

@thejennystuttle

#alcina dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu #lady dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #alcina x reader #re8 #my fic #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil village

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littlemisspascal · 4 years ago

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Death and an Angel part 15

Death!Din x Cupid F!Reader

Summary: “Our souls are connected,” you say with as much conviction as you can infuse into your voice. “No matter what happens, I’ll always be your angel, and you’ll always be my Din.”

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,430 (i wish it were longer, but my brain said nope)

Warnings: angst, language, dialogue heavy, overuse of italics, plot plot plot, Din is emotionally compromised, no beta we die like men

Author Note: At long last here comes a new segment. Between bad mental health days, work trying to kill me, and a killer migraine, I finally managed to get this done. Considering how much of a mess my brain is right now, if any of this doesn’t make sense I deeply apologize and will try to clear things up with answers if needed. But also know some things I do plan to talk about in upcoming segments too. Sigh...What can I say? I’m horrible at plot sometimes 😅. Thank you everyone who’s sticking with this fic and offering me such lovely words of support. I love all of you 💖

Links to Part 1 and Part 14.5 and Part 16

Cross-posted on AO3.

Photo Inspiration:

When you open your eyes, you feel just as shocked as Din looks looming over you.

You sit up, heart pounding, and pull the edge of your torn shirt up to reveal smooth, unmarred skin. Other than your shirt being ripped, there is not the slightest indication you’d been stabbed, not even a tiny scar. What the kriff? You have no idea what to feel, what to think, but when you look up suddenly nothing else matters other than the fact Din is here with you.

There’s a lump in your throat as you stand up, making it hard to speak when you croak. “Din.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you throw yourself at him, nearly knocking him backwards. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his shirt, and you bury your face against his neck, unable to hold back the overjoyed sob that escapes. Maker, you’ve missed him so, so much. It feels as if you’ve been apart for decades. You swear you are never letting him go ever again.

That’s the plan at least, until Din abruptly stiffens when you attempt to kiss him and disentangles himself as if you’ve burned him. He backs up, putting a whole galaxy-sized gap of distance between you both. You notice for the first time he’s dressed in civilian clothes, a solid black shirt and dark trousers. There is a hole in the shirt in the middle of his torso, revealing a glimpse of tan skin.

Your brain struggles to make sense of what you’re seeing. Hadn’t he been wearing beskar before?

Din stares at you, a mistrustful glint in his brown eyes you’ve never been on the receiving end of. “Who are you?”

Your whole world grinds to a halt.

What? Why would he ask that? Does he— Is he— Could he— Too many questions spin inside your mind, making you dizzy.

This must be one of his stupid jokes, you tell yourself. Yeah, that’s gotta be it. He’s always had a twisted sense of humor after all.

“That’s not funny,” you say, scowling. “You know me better than anyone.”

Din just continues to stare at you, and his silence cuts into you like the blade of the Darksaber, bleeding you dry for a second time. You blink furiously before tears can spill down your cheeks because there is no reason to cry. Not at all. This is just a nightmare. None of this is real.

It can’t be.

You turn away from him, needing a moment to compose yourself, and your eyes end up looking at your bed. There is no mistaking the polka-dotted comforter or the abundance of fluffy pillows you’re addicted to collecting. You spin in a circle, struggling to remain calm. Instead of rock walls, you see paint a soft shade of periwinkle you’d spent hours deliberating over. Instead of bookshelves and a desk, you see your matching antique dresser and wardrobe set you’d bought at an auction for an amazingly fair price.

There is no denying you’re not in Gideon’s lair anymore. You’re standing in the bedroom of your kriffing apartment.

“Is this your home?” Din asks. His tone is quiet, but in the otherwise silent bedroom he might as well be screaming. “Every time someone new arrives, this place changes. I think it’s meant to bring them comfort during their stay. Sometimes it’s a park or a beach, but usually it’s their home.”

Stay? The word snags in your mind, jagged and sharp. Stay means being stuck in one place. Your eyes shoot to the corner where the door to the hall should be, but there is nothing there. Just blank wall space as if the door had been sealed and painted over.

Stay is just a shorter word for confinement.

“We’re trapped here,” you whisper, a chill sweeping over your body.

A dark thought crosses your mind before you can stop it: you’ve always been trapped.

And it’s true, isn’t it? For as long as you’ve been a Cupid, you’ve been under the thumb of Gideon and Hess and your other superiors. The freedom you had on Umbriel was just an illusion, a carrot dangled in front of your face. At the end of the day you reported back to headquarters for your next assignment and followed orders like a good little soldier.

All this time you’ve been locked in a cage, you’ve just been blind to its bars.

“You’re half right,” Din says, voice uncharacteristically bitter.

“What do you mean?” you ask, facing him again.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, like there’s something prickling under the surface. “You’ll leave this place just like everyone else does.” His lips purse into a thin line. “The only one trapped is me.”

You blink, not understanding. The way he’s talking doesn’t sound like the Din you know at all. He’s far more expressive than you’ve ever witnessed him to be, openly conveying every emotion on his face as the feelings occur. Biting your lip, you study the man in front of you in lieu of responding.

Appearance wise, he’s identical to Din. Same piercing brown eyes, same messy dark hair, large hands and strong build. All the outward physical details are supporting the conclusion this is your soulmate you’re looking at, but it’s as if his personality has been swapped with a stranger’s, leaving behind the external shell as a disguise.

“Din, what—”

“Why do you keep calling me that? The only name I have is Death.”

Your breath catches as your suspicions are confirmed that something is seriously wrong. What if he’s another replica meant to trick you just like the rest of the room? Icy fear starts to spread through your bloodstream, threatening to freeze your heart solid, when a sudden thought cuts through the terror. Your eyes can be easily deceived, but your soulmate bond is impossible to manipulate. It can show you the truth.

You step closer on shaky legs, praying to the Maker for strength. Death tenses, resembling a cornered animal, and the sight strikes another blow against your fragile heart. Steeling your resolve, you reach out for his hand the same patient way he once had with you aboard the Crest. It’s funny how life likes to repeat itself, you just wish it had better timing.

He gets this expression on his face like he’s leery of your intentions. Like if he voluntarily surrenders to your touch then it means he’s lowering all his defenses, making himself susceptible to being hurt.

You decide to try a different approach, turning your hand over to display your marked palm.

His eyes light up with recognition at the same time his lips part in silent shock. He hesitates a beat, then lifts his hand up to mimic yours, showing off his own soulmate marking.

Inching closer, you lightly brush your fingertips over his, a spark of familiar warmth igniting from the connection. One touch and the truth is confirmed. He is your soulmate.

He just can’t remember being him.

“I don’t understand,” Death murmurs, raw with vulnerability and confusion. “This mark...Where did it come from? I don’t remember receiving it.”

You swallow. “What’s the last thing you do remember?”

Brown eyes turn distant, looking back upon his memories to find an answer. Your fingers itch to smooth the crease that forms in the space between his eyebrows.

“Pain.” Death’s other hand touches his chest right where the hole in his shirt is. You’re not naive enough to think it’s coincidental. “I remember feeling like I was being ripped apart. There was this noise, too. It’s hard to explain, but it almost sounded like something was vibrating or humming. Then I woke up in what I thought was my ship, but found out was actually this place when I couldn’t teleport away.”

He looks at you, silently imploring you to help him make sense of it all, but it’s hard to focus as your heartbeat pounds loudly in your eardrums. You touch your side, feeling a twinge of phantom pain.

Xi’an told you that Gideon had stabbed Din once upon a time with the Lightsaber, a horrifying incident you had not known occurred in your soulmate’s past.

“There’s this weapon the Armorer made called the Lightsaber,” you begin, remembering what else the twi’lek had revealed. “It—”

“Takes power from souls and gives it to the wielder,” he interjects. “Why are you bringing it up?”

“Because I think it’s the reason we’re here,” you say softly. It’s a painful answer you don’t want to say out loud, but it’s ultimately one you know is necessary to voice. “The last thing I remember is being stabbed, just like you remember being hurt. I think everyone who’s been trapped here has had a piece of their souls captured by the Lightsaber to use as energy. We’re basically the equivalent of kriffing batteries.”

Death’s expression twists, a mixture of anger and what scares you to identify as despair. “That would explain then why everyone else eventually leaves this place except for me. I can’t die. There is nowhere else for my soul to go. I’m going to remain trapped here, alone, forever.”

“Hey,” you murmur, hating his wounded expression. “Don’t say that. I…” you trail off, because you can’t say I’m here or I won’t leave you when you have no control over your soul’s fate. But the mere thought of abandoning this beautiful piece of Din’s soul behind, lonely and imprisoned, leaves you feeling as if your heart has been torn from your chest. With a low whine, you press your forehead against his and send a wave of love across the bond, conveying what you cannot say with words.

He jerks with surprise, inhaling sharply. “What—What was that?”

“Our souls are connected,” you say with as much conviction as you can infuse into your voice. “No matter what happens, I’ll always be your angel, and you’ll always be my Din.”

Shock flickers across his face before it is swallowed by grim resignation. Tentatively, he caresses your cheek, avoiding direct eye contact. “I wish it really were as simple as that. There is no denying we’re connected as two matched souls, but you and I both know I’m not the Din you love. I’m not who deserves to hear your words of devotion.”

This time it’s you who pulls away.

Din had told you he believed himself undeserving of having a soulmate until he met you, but meeting this past version of himself has revealed to you just how deep his insecurities were rooted. Even when acknowledging you are soulmates, he stubbornly continues to think he’s not good enough. He can’t help comparing himself as lesser than the competition which is beyond ridiculous because the competition is himself.

You feel anger burn down the length of your spine, along each and every nerve and vein.

Maker, your soulmate is an idiot. And you make sure he knows it by flicking him in-between his eyes, eliciting a pained grunt.

“Listen to me and listen well,” you say, grabbing both sides of his face and forcing him to look at you. “Love is not conditional, it is constantly evolving and adapting to the changes life forces upon us all. To me, there is no difference between who you were, who you are, and who you will become. I will love you the same. Absolutely nothing will ever change the way I feel about you. You are mine and I am yours.”

He stares at you, still as a statue, and just when you are thinking of flicking him again Death lunges forward, hands wrapping around the back of your neck as he smashes his lips against yours, urgent and desperate. He kisses you like he’s been waiting his entire lifetime for this precise moment. The warmth of his affection spreads through your whole body until it’s all you can feel—his stubble scraping against your cheeks, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, every movement possessive and fierce and unbelievably wonderful. You know nothing beyond the taste of his mouth, the feel of his skin beneath your hands, the love you have for him so overwhelming you can barely breathe.

Death groans, low and guttural from the depths of his chest, and at first your brain mistakes the sound as pleasure, but then he growls against your mouth, every muscle tensing up, voice desperate, “Stop.”

Your eyes slam open at the same time he forcibly shoves you backwards with a firm hand against your sternum. You struggle not to trip over your feet, arms spinning circles awkwardly in the air until you regain your balance, and when you look up a cry of alarm tears itself out of your throat in response to the horror you see.

Death is clutching at his head, groaning and snarling inhuman noises as his body flickers in and out of focus, appearance changing rapidly between humanoid and shadowy silhouette. He’s shaking so hard it’s as if he’s tearing apart at the seams, caught in the middle of transforming into a feral creature made of darkness that strikes a chord of fear deep inside you.

What do you do? What the kriff do you do?!

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” you plead, and barely restrain from whimpering when pitch black eyes snap up to stare back at you. “Tell me what’s happening. Tell me how to help you.”

“Get away from me, I—I can’t—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head emphatically with a pinched expression as if he’s bothered by a loud noise only his ears can detect. His voice is similar in its raspy sound to when he wears his helmet, but it is distorted with pain, words almost incomprehensible as they are forced through clenched teeth. “Something’s wrong.”

“No shit,” you retort automatically. You’ve never seen your soulmate like this before—manic and unhinged. It’s such a terrifying contrast to how he had behaved mere minutes ago, you struggle to make sense of the abrupt shift. There has to be a reason to justify the sudden switch in his behavior. Something that would trigger the loss of his control so drastically.

Something like watching Moff Gideon murder his soulmate right in front of him.

You bite back a curse. Out there beyond these four walls you’re trapped within Din is experiencing an emotional breakdown just like Gideon wanted to provoke all along.

“Sweetheart,” you try again, holding up your hands in a placating manner. “It won’t be easy, but I need you to calm down and listen— ”

Another shudder racks his body and a snarl so loud it verges on screaming interrupts your pleading. Without warning, a wave of dark energy explodes outwards from his hands, sending the furniture in the room flying in multiple directions.

When the energy washes over you, you expect to be similarly knocked off your feet, but instead you watch with wide eyes as your body absorbs it. You feel it moving restlessly beneath your skin, like it’s searching for something, and in the back of your mind you think you should be freaking out, but when the energy encounters your own powers and wraps around them like a security blanket, all you feel is Din.

Your potential terror fades into blissful euphoria. Every cell in your body flares with possessiveness and starts to chant mine, mine, mine as your powers adapt to the new presence. It’s like a precious piece of Din has curled up next to your heart, yours to love and cherish and protect. You look to the bond, stunned to find it’s shining brighter than you’ve ever seen, rivaling a supernova in its intensity.

An unprompted memory flashes through your mind of you and Din on the Razor Crest, so vivid and crisp you think you could reach out and touch the armor he wears, feel the chill of the beskar beneath your fingertips.

‘Do you like being Death?’ you hear yourself ask as stars whish by overhead, all blurring into each other, silver light overcoming the midnight darkness of space.

‘I’m good at it.’

For the first time in your existence, you wonder if it’s lonely being a one-of-a-kind immortal entity who roams the galaxy. And then immediately afterwards you think: Maybe I can be good at it too.

When you grab hold of the hazy outline of his hand and hold it against your chest, right over your wildly beating heart, there is no hesitation. Just pure instinct. His powers immediately latch onto yours, light and darkness intertwining together, mirroring the soft glow of twilight.

Death tries to pull away, to save you from the irreversible change, and inadvertently releases several chaotic pulses of energy as his focus slips. You ignore how the room starts to shake and the walls begin to crack, revealing glimpses of blinding light, instead leaning further into his touch, looking fearlessly into his onyx eyes. “It’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

Your words are as much a reassurance as they are a promise, and you feel the exact moment he believes you when he presses his forehead against yours, his voice shouting over the maelstrom, “I love you!”

There is no time for you to respond as the walls disintegrate into dust and the entire room is engulfed in white light, swallowing you and Din whole. It’s all-encompassing, wiping out each of your senses as if you’re a newborn wrapped within your mother’s womb, not knowing what exists beyond this singular moment.

An invisible force pulls at you the same way a puppet is manipulated by strings, tugging you up, up, up and away. You don’t have enough self-control to fight it, but even if you did you realize there is no reason to be resistant as it slowly chases away your body’s numbness with gentle warmth, reminding you of how winter gradually melts under the heat of summer. Soon your limbs are able to weakly twitch and respond to your brain’s commands, then your ears pop next, bringing back sound.

You hear a strange huffing noise loud enough it gives you the mental impression the source is mere inches away from your head; a combination of a teary whine and a frustrated growl. It’s familiar, right on the edge of your memory, but nothing leaps out until something pats at your cheek.

Blinking your eyes open, it takes several seconds for your sight to adjust to the unexpected dimness and your change of scenery—most prominently, standing inches away from your face, a little green-skinned child peering back at you with wide, watery eyes. He’s filthier than you remember last seeing him, covered in smudges of dirt.

“Hey, bud,” you greet, throat rough like sandpaper. “You okay?”

He hiccups a choked sob in response, tears brimming.

You slowly sit up, wincing when you catch a glimpse of dried blood caked against your torso. Prodding at the skin, you gasp quietly as you realize not only did combining your soul with the piece of Din’s bring you back to life, it healed your wound too.

The baby’s fussing increases in volume, drawing your focus when he starts gesturing frantically with his arms towards something to the side of you both.

You tense even before you turn to follow his pointing hands, a jolt of unease rippling through you like an electric current. Squinting, you spy a slither of light dissecting the dark, but there’s something eerie about how it flickers, like a busted bulb struggling to maintain lit.

“What—” you start, only for your heart to lurch into your throat when the light moves closer and awareness dawns on you.

It’s Gideon holding the Lightsaber. The blade of the ancient weapon is damaged and it no longer hums its haunting tune, but the Seraph doesn’t appear to care about that or his bleeding head wound. His entire focus is consumed by something far more important.

A silhouette enshrouded in a thick fog of shadow and swirling blackness, hovering silently over the ground.

Din.

Your soulmate mark burns along your palm, not with heat, but with bone-chilling coldness.

“Stay here,” you tell the kid, standing up as your powers begin to buzz and accumulate like storm clouds within your chest. It is beyond precious, this extraordinary strength Din’s energy has infused with your abilities.

Once upon a time you were scared of Moff Gideon. Of all the ways he could hurt you and manipulate you.

“Everything will be okay.”

Now it’s his turn to be afraid.

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#Pedro Pascal #my fic #death and an angel #Din Djarin #din x you #din x reader #din djarin x you #din djarin x reader #my writing #pedro pascal character fanfiction

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enigma-absolute · 3 years ago

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10, 17, and 18 for the Eddsworld asks! >:3c

10. What do you think is the funniest joke in the series?

Damn, that’s a GOOD question. So much so that I had look back on a couple eddisodes to make me think, but here’s my response.

I think it’s in the comics.

Not that the show doesn’t have some great jokes, but the funniest of them for me are within the comics. Specifically with Edd’s last era prior to Space Face releasing, and a little into the start of Legacy. They were how I got into Eddsworld in the first place.

A good chunk of my improvised humour was learned from Edd’s ability to make anything a visual or linguistic pun. I get more of a chuckle out of stuff such as ‘immature cheese’, ‘wrapper in my pocket’, ‘Dr Names’ and that one arc of Matt getting an honest-to-god date.

That being said, I loved seeing Tom getting spun around and yeeted by that tank in the Moviemakers montage. Also, from the end of said montage:

Laurel: I wonder what happened to all those space cats... Edd: Well, do you see that tiny speck up in the sky? Laurel: Yeah? Edd: That isn’t them. They’re dead.

Edd’s delivery of that line legit makes me crack a grin and chuckle.

17. Which Eddsworld character do you relate to the most, and why?

Again, good question.

After thinking on it a bit, I think it’d still be Edd, and not just because he’s my favourite.

In the classic era, he’s the artist/animator, the one who initiates the initiative of the episodes and is simultaneously DONE with his friends’ antics AND eggs them on further.

Sounds like my kind of guy.

(Actually, on a writer’s note, Edd taking the initiative for adventures is what I think has been missing from much of Legacy AND Beyond’s writing. He took the initiative to go to Atlantis when Matt lost the fridge keys, and when Tom bought that film camera with all their life savings, he took the initiative of making a film instead of just relying on a 2008 YouTube clickbait video Tom made. His friends started it, sure, but EDD was the one who kept saying ‘alright, let’s go get this stuff done’ AND DID IT.)

(I think I could write a whole thing on how this is really the show’s Writing Engine, and how it started to vanish circa Hammer and Fail Part Two and Space Face, but that’s another day. Or time. Or ask. Speaking of writing…)

18. If you could write an episode, what would it be about?

Oh BOY. Buckle up, I’ve got several ideas swirling in my head and I’m about to pitch them - hell, if any of you think they have standing power, hit me up and we can figure out a way to team up and make them exist!

Suction Cup Man vs Tord’s Giant Robot. It’s a more fully fleshed-out version of the voice-acting post I did for a skit a while back, and I’m unashamed to say that it’s a roughly copied plot of SCM 2 (including references to it and all).

Suction Cup Man gets captured by a mystery man from the future to take down some jerk’s giant robot in the present. Cut to The End Part Two with Tord gloating in the giant robot, and it all goes to chaos from here.

Fun fact about this one: I’ve already handwritten most of the script’s first draft, and have three different endings planned out, but I’m not sure which one would be best for the skit. They’re all good in their own ways, but whilst I had the initial idea to PrynceJJayden of twitter fame, I’m not sure if he’d be accepting of script pitches from other people at this point in time. On top of that, I don’t know if his VA talent who does Tord (@/The_Rey_Rey on twitter) would be keen to do that sort of thing too.

PowerEdd 2: The Devious Drenchings of Doctor H2O. (Formerly titled The Eddvengers, but considering there’s an AU with that name already, this seems more appropriate.)

When a freak science experiment near the antiques store strikes the lads, Edd’s superhero powers return, and this time Tom and Matt join with their own. But their enemy isn’t an evil director or an old friend, but some maniac with a drinking water tank on his head and a desire to sink London into his New Atlantis.

If the name ‘Doctor H2O’ sounds familiar to some of you, he was actually a villain character Edd Gould created! You can find an uncoloured drawing of him from Edd’s old tumblr from about 2011.

This story idea also has some meat to it - lore pages on how their powers worked, old script bits, writing ideas - with the intention of becoming an audio drama as so not to stress out animators. I still have the notebook I scrawled the idea out in from years ago, and I even had some concept art from current-day EW animator Fran Pun!

Unfortunately, as much as the more influential people behind the first attempt had resources, fame and means to make it, this one fell onto the back burner due to unclear plot beats (my fault), no scheduling (this was just a bad habit in general from said people) and one of my co-writers just… not going anywhere with it. Some jokes from him felt a little forced. Gratefully though, I still have the intro scene script somewhere in my drives, and I think it holds up. I’d love to come back to this one someday.

Miniseries: Through the Time Machine

Saloonatics had the Wild West, WTFuture gave us time travel, so what if we went back and forth in time to find our favourite lads having adventures in other points of history?

Before Penguins of Madagascar was my first fandom experience, Phineas and Ferb was my first Fan experience, even just from mostly flash games online and watching the episodes in pieces on YouTube. But what I remembered most was a miniseries of specials where the formula for the show was translated into different time periods and story genres to give a unique flavouring to the stories.

So come on, imagine: Eddsworld Caveman episode. Eddsworld pirates episode. Eddsworld Medieval episode. Even an Eddsworld Y2K Futurism… future… episode. (Look, all I’m saying is that the aesthetic could SLAP.)

Would there be an overarching plot? Not really, they could just be for fun! And I’d love to throw my hat in the ring to try it out. It’d be so much fun!

#chris rambles #theboxfort #eddsworld #good lord this took a while to write up - but thanks for asking pink!#MORE THAN OKAY TO REBLOG!!#enni answers

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kiingocreative · 4 years ago

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The Structure of Story is now available! Check it out on Amazon, via the link in our bio, or at https://kiingo.co/book

I sure love a good villain. I love writing them, I love reading about them, I love watching them on screen, and I love unravelling them.

When writing No Pain, No GameI thoroughly enjoyed developing the character of Sean Cravanaugh, the evil mastermind at the centre of the plot. The whole process was extremely cathartic. So much so, in fact, that when the book came out and readers hated Sean for being so horrible and manipulative, I was almost taken by surprise.

This did get me thinking: was my love of strong villains uncommon? Did my ability to write a convincing villain make me a villain at heart? How did other writers feel about their own baddies, and how did they go about writing them?

I had to find out.

The Nuanced Villainy Trend

One trend that’s become more prominent in recent years, be it in literature or popular culture in general, is a shift on how we look at and portray villains. Nowadays, characters from the dark side are more nuanced, more complex and more intriguing than they used to be. We don’t just see what they do, but why they do it and the reasons that drive their behaviour take us on a rollercoaster ride. We’re no longer looking at the bad guys at a singular point in time, where they’re already at the apex of their villainy. We’re given a full 360 degrees view of what’s got them to that point — we see the world and their experiences from their point of view, and they earn some sympathy points along the way.

And that’s the thing. We hate what they do, and we can’t condone their actions, but we tend to hate them, as people, a little less. We wonder what we ourselves might have done when faced with the same circumstances. Through that new lens, they become almost endearing.

This blurs the lines, to a large extent, and the world seems to love it. Gone are the days of black and white as we’re increasingly exposed to the other side of the more traditional hero-focused stories. This is a good thing, according to author Sabrina Voerman, who states that ‘we need more stories told by villains because [she] believes we are all a little grey. No one is all good and no one is all evil.’

Where Villains are Born (or: are you a closeted villain if you can write a good villain?)

This all begs the question: why do we love this new trend so much?

My guess? Because it speaks to the darker, imperfect, highly flawed part of us we try so hard to conceal in our civilised day-to-day lives. When author Freya McMillanworks on villains for her own books, she admits she ‘thinks about the darkness in [herself] and ramps it up a lot, so it’s still believable’. And we love it because we can relate.

So, do you have to be a villain yourself to write a good villain? Not necessarily (and rather thankfully, I might add). I believe it’s more a reflection that we, collectively, are starting to embrace every facet of what it means to be human. We’re letting go of the typical and rather unattainable hero-in-shining-armour ideal in favour of the myriad impulses, idiosyncrasies and desires that make us who we are as a species.

Creating a convincing villain these days is no longer about handpicking a singular cause to justify someone falling off the rails of socially accepted behaviour — abuse, loss and trauma being recurring favourites on that front. Instead, it’s all about exploring the complexity of human nature, psychology and the full colour palette of human emotions.

For Sabrina Voerman, it’s a delicate balance, because ‘villains have to have reason, and that does not always mean some traumatic event pushed them into being bad. [She] likes a villain that has good intentions, but will do anything to get there’. In fact, she highlights that ‘understanding the villain is key, and giving them a few redeeming qualities humanises them, allowing readers (or at least [herself]) to see themselves in the villain.’

Are Modern Villains Just Normal People Doing Bad Things?

So, where does this land us, I hear you ask?

Are we all villains at heart?

Are good, modern-day villains just normal people doing bad things?

Yes and no. We’re at least leaning into the idea that those once crystal-clear distinctions now have blurrier edges than before.

Modern day villains often stand somewhere in the middle between right and wrong. They’re divisive characters which we can’t help but ‘sort of like’ and ‘sort of loathe’. And we’re undecided because we’ve come to realise that, in the world we live in, where things get amplified, blown out of proportions and re-tweeted till they get viral, it’s increasingly easy for anyone to be publicly perceived and pointed to as a ‘villain’. Heroes can become villains, and vice versa. It could happen to anyone. At any time. Almost overnight.

In her writing, Freya McMillan looks at it rather simply: ‘[she] doesn’t necessarily describe them to [herself] as ‘villains’. In [her] mind [she] writes about people who are victim of circumstance, or are affected by traits that are beyond their control.’

Author Tara Lake’s view is similar. Her approach is ‘comparable to any character: [she] considers their limitations, their desires and motivations, and how far they’re willing to go for those desires’.

What does that mean for writers?

The key takeaway for us writers is that we need to keep moving away from the traditional and now antiquated, overly simplified view of good versus evil. Gone are the days of irreproachable angels fighting stone-hearted demons, dark beings who were born bad and only ever did horrible things for all the wrong reasons.

Quite the opposite, in fact. They have layers. Forget black and white, or even shades of grey. Like kaleidoscopes, they’re made of a thousand shapes and brushstrokes from all the colours in the rainbow. They’re intricate and intriguing, and because this all makes them more humanised than they used to be, they can easily be hailed as the underdogs we want to back.

As writer, I find this trend fascinating. The prospect of getting to paint a whole different picture when it comes to villains is incredibly exciting. It opens up a world of possibilities that forces us to think beyond stereotypes, to gain (and portray!) fresh perspectives and to experiment with our characters in different ways. Something, I’m sure, readers everywhere will also appreciate!

#writingtips #creative writing #screenwriting #writers on tumblr #writers #writing #writerblr #writing advice #writing community #writing resources

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worldsover · 5 years ago

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Judgement to the Desiccated ft. Karina

length ✦ 5573

genres ✧ sm type future; asphyxiation; blackmail; virtual_servant!Karina;

✦✧✦✧✦✧

Air did a poor job of not being polluted so Lee Soo Man flooded the world instead. The man himself certainly must be long gone and could not have been in charge of that decision but the legacy of his company far exceeds the legacy of any other human collective in history. Once on this planet, gas was the fluid of choice for respiration and breathing was an unconscious reflex. Now there’s Aether by SM. How very on-brand of them to have the liquid air you breathe follow perfume naming conventions.

Open your eyes and exit the sleeping chamber. Aether has you work for each inhalation, it desaturates the color of the bedroom—maybe there’s a subtle but uncomfortable tinge of yellow—and it makes your nose itch. Your muscles wield much less force than they used to because of the lack of resistance the fluid provides. Moreover, it smells like hairspray as though the ozone layer is taking sardonic revenge.

Screens impersonating windows track your eyes to ensure realistic parallax, playing the scene of divine blue heavens that could not exist. An azure sky is a reward for those planets that have an atmosphere and a sun for light to scatter. Your walls are either chrome or drywall white and your whole bedroom is plainly decorated just like the day you moved in.

“Etymology of bedroom,” you think out loud, though it falls on no ears.

“Bedroom is a compound noun consisting of bed and room. Bed goes back to Old English bedd ‘sleeping place, plot of ground prepared for plants,’ which goes back to the Germanic-”

Plants and sleep are both strong words to use nowadays. The former doesn’t exist in nature and it seems you’re the only one who bothers with the latter. Faint buzzing distracts you from the AI’s response and signals you to the nano drones that swim throughout the liquid to process carbon dioxide from your lungs. This whole ordeal could’ve been much worse if you didn’t have brain interfaces doing the hard part of controlling your diaphragm. The most you need is a purposeful thought. Still, it gets tiring having to think the same thought every three seconds. In. Out.

Was the metaphorical Soo Man teaching a lesson in perseverance? You love K-pop and imagine it’s how trainees used to practice dancing, singing, being charismatic. Being an idol had to be as natural as breathing air. Inhale and exhale. Right now with any antiquated programming language you clung on to, you could write a single for loop that did the same job. For every three seconds: breathe in, breathe out.

“What’s for breakfast today?” Not loud enough. “What’s for breakfast?” you think it louder.

“Welcome, master. Ae-Karina is ready for service.” It’s quite a kindness for SM to blur the bland dystopia you live in by augmenting reality through your neural device. A bosomy woman in a gold-lined but otherwise modest maid outfit appears from the corner of your eye and she bows. Ae-Karina is bewitching and almost becoming of her basis as its graphics have gradually upgraded over the rotations but you wouldn’t misconstrue the avatar as human.

“I said, what’s for breakfast!” It feels impolite to scream in your head, there’s other residents there, but finally the fridge lights up.

“Of course master. May I remind you eating is unnecessary?”

In. Out. Every day, she does remind you, yes. How kind of the company to put all your nutritional requirements in the new air. Aether goes in then Aether goes out. You wish the thoughts of breathing could fade into the background but they’re just like your cravings for food. Always hungry but never starving, whole though not once satisfied. Your eyes pause at her gorgeous face and she tells you there’s bacon. Take it from your fridge. Bacon goes in. Well, the drones take care of the out.

Your assigned living space is the entire 207th floor of a tower. Two hundred and seven floors below the surface. The neighbor a few floors upstairs says that he thinks living deeper is a sign of status. What a luxury. That guy should check the status of his facial muscles, maybe improve his code that lets him tell lies while he’s at it. A couple hundred flights of stairs to swim up is a useless skeuomorphism of skyscrapers in the days of the sun. In fact they were more than useless, you would've preferred a single vertical hallway as it would have let you propel upwards unimpeded. Each floor is the exact same, a glass door that affords no privacy for its residence, a false tree on each side. At the upper levels, malls, convenience stores and other gaudy retail, but it’s the gyms that mock you that you mock in return. They’re always empty.

Finally reaching the top is no true break even if it is a change in scenery. Inhale. Aether tastes a little different up here. Exhale. Can’t say you like it.

Countless satellites form a parody of the star from which the planet flew away, the false image refracted by the upper boundary of Aether. They can’t take away your memories of this star. Looking up at the sky once blinded you with ultraviolet radiation, burning your cornea. It was beautiful. Now everyone’s decided that if they’re playing the part of corporate dystopia, they might as well fit the aesthetic. In a way, it’s self-fulfilling. They wouldn’t have chosen a neon pink sun to compliment the blue and metallic gloom of the cityscape if it weren’t so ingrained in popular media already.

Still, you would’ve expected Google or Walmart to become the megacorp responsible for the state of the world, not a Korean entertainment company. Must’ve been quite the red paperclip scenario. Instead of material design or utilitarian architecture, tacky artistic structures line the streets. The same advertisements for albums that they’ve been selling for the past however long. It's all so obvious, the city could've been designed from scratch to accommodate new forms of travel and goddamn liquid air but instead they went with futuristic Tokyo.

Dubstep permeates your inner ear implants. A notification informs your thoughts that it’s “Hip-hop EDM dance pop with a strong jungle house groove and urban influences.” It’s dubstep. Liquid carries barely any sound so SM affords the option for implants if you're nostalgic for one of the senses. Even though it’s a slower form of communication than direct neural transfer, the noise comforts you. Of course the company would choose dubstep as their background music, but maybe they make money off refunds somehow. It switches to Ice Cream Cake. Much better.

You walk the not so busy roads towards a short brick warehouse in the distance and heavy rain soaks your clothes. No such thing as weather without the sun and water but it’s all simulated anyway.

A warm Seulgi adlib and you know it’s Psycho that starts playing. No, none of your senses are real. The most you could trust is your vision but even that’s being lied to. You could be living in a vat and fed all these thoughts, but then why make it so mediocre? Not paradise, nor torture but a lukewarm in-between. Guess that's what happens when SM Entertainment manages the post-apocalypse. Good on them for trying. The alternative would be a frozen hellscape without solar radiation. Can’t deny their work with geothermal and nuclear energy to keep the Aether warm so that you didn’t have to live underground for the rest of human history. It’s quite great PR to save humanity.

“Hey now, we’ll be okay,” repeats a few more times than you remember.

The Idea Factory Alpha White Delta Green says the neon tubes lighting the front of the brick and mortar building. Your ID card bears a name but it’s not yours, not until they approve your name change. Those usually get processed faster with how often people liked changing their names.

Sit at a desk with a sterile white keyboard and slick new monitor. Type and empty words appear on the screen: “Think for the many, not for the one. We need to think ahead.” A thumbs up. The company appreciates the input. That’s probably enough work for one day. Some SNSD live stages help the time pass, SM certainly appreciated the streaming numbers and it would net you some social points.

It’s hard to say what comes to mind when they ask you to envision a world without the sun and air, especially since it’s what you’ve known for... Two hundred years? There’s no frame of reference, that much you can tell from when you counted seconds to see how often the satellites completed their orbit. SM really took time to have them propel at random speeds, they love withholding sensitive information like that from citizens. To be fair, time is sensitive. Guess the meaning of that phrase changes like all parts of language.

Look around. Dozens of employees at identical workspaces all try to answer the same questions. Naturally, there’s no need for manual labor anymore but there will never be a replacement for human ingenuity. Nice slogan but you know you’re only here for data. Can’t see a need for customer retention though—what’s the alternative, skip Earth? See you on another planet?

“Hey bro, you come up with anything new?” Dave says. Two desks away, you see the enthusiastic, surprisingly spry man play around with a Newton’s cradle. The balls at each end bounce back and forth, not slowing down their rhythm any time soon.

“I think I got something,” you say, “Earth is not the answer. It can’t be, long term.”

“Ooh, I like that. Actually, I really like that.”

“What are you gonna do, copy me?”

“Of course not. You know how much SM hates plagiarism.” Click. Clack.

“Ha. As if there’s a single original thought left in the world.” Click. Clack. The imaginary sounds of metal spheres bouncing play in your mind. They got the volume wrong, no way it’d sound that loud from that distance. “You’d think with all their resources, they’d have figured out space travel by now.”

“I don’t think they want to leave, bro. Wouldn’t be great for profits.”

Your mouth opens to laugh and causes laugh8942.mp3 to play in Dave’s head. “I love it. SM probably hates that sass too,” you say.

“Oh no, they’re gonna arrest me for thoughtcrimes. Nah, they love creativity, just when it suits them. Also, if they actually did bust you for wrongthink like rumors say, I wouldn’t have this on me.” Dave twirls a finger and points at you and you thank his absurd flair for the histrionic that keeps you amused with such drab work.

“NewDrug.mp6. Would you like to play it?” the dry system voice notifies you.

“Woah woah there tiger, hold on.” Dave must’ve noticed your intrigued eyes and holds his hands up. “You might wanna experience that at home. But if you’re interested in more, ask for chicken parm at the vegan place. You know the one.”

Dave leaves his desk. He doesn’t return. You finish your work. Inspire. Expire. You’d rather not.

In contrast to your commute to work, the roads fill with others on your way home. You have to know. Take solace in the comfort of a bench where a huge McDonald’s arch bathes the surroundings and its people with a yellow glow. Really shouldn’t watch it now, especially if Dave says it’s a home type of watch but you have to know. A family of five watches you pass out. They, along with every other passerby, ignore your still body draped over the chrome outdoor seating as you look like yet another junkie. The title is correct after a fashion, the simulation is some sort of new drug. The details of the exploits that happen in the immersive replay wash over you but you don’t need them to know that it’s the sort of lewd that SM would not allow—at least not publicly and not without the right exorbitant payment.

Suit pants and underwear go straight to the laundry. That must’ve been an embarrassing sight but no one bothered to stop you, so it doesn’t matter. Look up where this vegan place was that Dave so presumptuously assumed you knew about and you find that it’s about four Avengers’ stores down from work. He must’ve eaten there before.

“Yo Dave, just wanna make sure, what’s the name of the vegan place called?”

“What are you talking about, man? You telling me there’s some secret underground farms that SM wouldn’t know about?”

You can’t tell when you got to work, a lack of standardized timing would help as well the haze of living in a monotonous dark. “Nah, I mean, for the-”

“I have no idea,” Dave emphasizes each word, “what you’re talking about.”

“I see.”

Work flies by, unusually.

“Hey, can I get a chicken-”

“Uh, this is Maron’s Veggies Only, it clearly says on the sign.”

Clear your throat. “Parm.”

The shifty part-time worker looks around and rubs his fingers gesturing for money. “No digital.”

Over the counter, you pass him a gold coin stamped with a holographic 1 and he hands you a USB stick and a laptop in return. How old-fashioned.

“It’ll sync with whoever you have set as your avatar experience aspect,” the worker says.

“Thanks.”

Ever vigilant as the patrol is, the alleys are the last place you want to go to hide with the obvious criminal element within them all but you head to one anyway. Dump the anachronistic technology in your storage pocket dimensions. Looking at its contents, you’d have to clean that mess up later, but the more you look like an average slob the better. The biggest problem with the inventories is all the people squatting in them. Inspectors wouldn’t care about the archaic ruins you left in yours.

“Welcome, master. Ae-Karina is ready to service.”

“I’d like to go on a date. A special date.” You highlight the key word special and sit on your living room couch. No one’s going to look in your glass door and regardless, you wouldn’t be the pervert for glimpsing into someone’s home.

“Ah yes, master. Ae-Karina is ready to fully service,” she says with a provocative tint in her tone, her sclera disperses to black to match. A pole drops from the ceiling while parts of her maid outfit dissolve which reveals more of the silky skin of her thighs, her lissom arms and most importantly her overflowing breasts. Ae-Karina wraps her legs around the pole and spins around, teasing fingers trace curves on her body to harden you. Her dance is precise but sultry regardless. She pulls up her short skirt to flaunt more of her ass beneath white panties and then pulls down to flourish her cleavage, not trapped by a bra. “Are you enjoying your maid’s show?”

“Very much so, yes,” you say.

Half of a smile forms before a glitch occurs and she teleports next to you, fully nude. It doesn’t pull you out of the illusion however. You just stare and drink in the splendor of her created body.

“You’re not going to touch?” Ae-Karina says.

A feel of her tits and you find it softer than pillows you used to rest on. Soft isn’t much of a character that exists anymore when the whole world is engulfed in liquid. No one has beds, especially with the rarity of sleep. Therefore, her mounds are a consummate dedication to the texture as you squeeze and pinch at her cute nipples.

Her maid outfit rematerializes as she straddles you. It provides more friction to your pants as she begins her lap dance. The weight of her body dragging across your legs and clothed erection induces your carnal impulses further. If only you could fuck the virtual idol. You have to make do with the imprint of her pussy lips on your bulge sliding up and down. Breath in. Breath out.

Ae-Karina pulls down your boxers and spits on your erection. It's not real but her hands so slick on your cock and you let reality slip. Real is for the past, you have desires gratified in the present. There is no real person nibbling at your neck but your nerves activate in sexual desire without discernment for truth. No, she doesn't love you, but when the voracious mass of ones and zeroes says it loves its master, you say it back.

"I love you."

ILOVEYOU infected ten million computers in 2000. An explosion. Calibration engaging. It’s 1:21 PM, Sunday, July 18, 2286 and hypothetically the sun would be out in its full rage. At this latitude and longitude, you’re at what was once the epicenter of all—Seoul, where a fountain caused a chain reaction allowing the hopeful remnant of a world to exist. It lasted a surprisingly long time without the sun and without Aether but the dying planet would succumb inevitably to the ever-increasing contamination so SM of all corporations took charge. A different kind of chain reaction occurred when they acquired a restaurant chain that discovered the recipe for liquid air. The law is on its way and prepared to punish you to its full extent.

You reel while your ears ring. An even sexier version of the woman you already fantasized about appears from your peripheral vision in the crater of your floor. A skimpy cop outfit, striated with reflective material that seems to wane black at different angles, outlines Karina’s curves. She has a tool belt with absurd gadgets, such as a knife baton hybrid, a taser combined with a spray bottle and a Tamagotchi. None of this is necessary. They could just immediately arrest you, impose limitations on your devices. Sure, SM cloned people to deal with underpopulation, but why Karina would be the enforcer is a whole nother issue. Maybe the entertainment company loves their irony?

“Halt. You’re under arrest. Any resistance will be penalized according to the combined Terms of Service of all SM and SM associated products.”

Fucked anyway, you figure you might as well go for it. Escape into your inventory and only seconds later you’re forced out. You manage to get what you need regardless.

“Violation of access rights will be charged to your account.”

It’s so obvious but there’s a reason you kept so much gold in physical storage. As you swim away, the sides of your apartment start to bubble. Bubbles? Already, your limbs feel unsteady. Something’s wrong in the Aether.

“This is standard procedure for escaping suspects that are indoors. Again, this is all agreed to under the Terms of Service.”

“When the fuck did I ever click accept to that shit?”

“When you were born in this world and decided you want to stay in it,” Karina says out loud. You hear her say it. Your physical ears process the vibrations in the air that come from her mouth. Gravity thwarts your desperate escape as your limp body floats on the limit between liquid and air. The atrophy of your muscles becomes apparent within the gaseous atmosphere. She watches you sink down as the room drains of all the false air though her eyebrows crease when she inspects you closer. Your breaths are involuntary. Despite your muscles shorting out, the force of gravity and the pressure of the gas bearing down on you, you’re breathing and you don’t mean to. Her eyes wander farther down. On your pants, a concrete rod stamps the fabric.

“Oh, you like what you see?”

“Shut up, criminal. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

“Your pussy,” you say and she scoffs.

“Original.” Karina bites her lip as your erection continues to grow behind its prison. You use all effort to put your hands up.

“Please, miss Karina. I’ve been bad.”

“I could punish you even more for sexual assault.”

“Then do it.”

Heat radiates the room in a way you haven’t felt in a while and droplets of sweat form on each of your bodies, especially on the thighs that her revealing outfit parades. Her facial features contort in deliberation and the wait kills you. You bat your eyes at her before Karina takes off her tight shorts and drops herself into your anticipatory face. This makes no sense but none of this life made any sense so you decide to go with the tides.

Centuries of training your respiration has led to this moment, but when you finally have real air to breathe, you spit at the opportunity and choose to suffocate. Then you spit at her pussy and lap it up. Karina’s nectar transfixes your olfactory glands, for once a smell that isn’t the sterile Aether. Your eyes are mesmerized in parallel because of the perfect design of her pussy, a single crease that leads into her hole that your tongue emphatically explores. Karina spreads her thighs wide to reveal a small nub that craves attention. So give it. Suck and swirl and flick your tongue, and the woman provides you the tight clench of her legs as a gift. And the sounds, rediscovered glorious noise. Loud, almost too loud, and clear is how they assault your ears, even surrounded by the flesh of her thighs. Muffled by the weight of her legs, you hear Karina moan in approval but she’s still clearly in charge with how she chokes you with her legs. This is not about your pleasure but hers, and any satisfaction that you derive is not only incidental but probably punishable by SM copyright law.

Karina squirms her hips subtly on your mouth. Her eyes are sharp and she’s just about to stop your hands from moving but she notices them clasp together.

“I’ll do anything to make you cum, please.” you say sloppily as her pussy juices fill your cheeks and drip down your chin.

“God. I can’t.” She takes deep, contemplative breaths. ”That’s more time added on for inappropriate behavior.” Her groaning and brief squeals make her words sound incogent.

You give her a concluding lick and a kiss on her slit. “So what have you been doing right now then?”

Point to a corner of the room and a subtle red light indicates a recording camera. At once, she pulls out a hose from a pocket that could not fit it and the vacuum submerges the room with noise. Her expression shifts quickly to serious.

“We don’t play games here in SMTOWN unless it’s SuperStar so don’t fuck with me.”

“Look who's trying to be a comedian. How about you fuck with me any further and the video gets released.”

“That’s funny, you think you have any sort of power-”

“Yoo Jimin, I suggest you don’t push me more.”

“Where do you know that name from? Right now.” She weighs herself down on your neck.

“You think I don’t have contingencies for if I die too? Karina, we can make this a win-win scenario. We both get to cum, we both get to walk away unscathed.”

“Fuck you.”

Your weak arms wander between her thighs. At any moment, a feeble punch towards your face or another ten seconds of asphyxiation and she could call your bluff. Even if you did have the ability to expose her perversions in any way, there would be no permanent recourse, not as long SM was in charge. So it surprises you when Karina takes off her shorts.

“Goddammit. Your cock just looks too good. And your mouth, how are you so good with it?” Put up five fingers when she motions to remove her top as well, and instead she opts to take off your clothes, seizing your pants and throwing them to join the rubble in the room.

A finger slips in, then two and a third dares. Her flawlessly architected pussy lips clings to your digits and Karina shudders in reply. You explore her wetness and find it’s smooth to the point of having no faults, but her juice inside is gloppy and causes your fingers to stick more than the liquids she spills from her slit.

“Who said you’re allowed to have more?”

You lap up the nectar on your fingers. “Then why’d they make you taste so good?”

Your thumb teases her sweet tight asshole and puts just the slightest amount of pressure on it while you finger her with more intensity. The mass of her butt burdens your torso the closer she gets to orgasm. Her eyelids squeeze close and you see her body ripple in anxious pleasure. Karina shows off her pearly whites, teetering on the cliff of hysteria.

“Yes, yes! I’m so close,” she screams.

"Not yet."

“Fuck." Karina sobs, "God. Damn, fuck I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just fuck me.”

“My pleasure,” you say. There’s no need for you to grab her since she brings herself down to your groin, which you’re thankful for as your arms are as good as jelly now. Fortunately, your cock throbs as hard as ever while Karina’s slit rests on it.

“Say you’ll delete it all, all the evidence, promise me.”

“You’re gonna fuck me first or what?” Your breath hitches while she makes a strangled noise as her velvety walls swallow your cock whole to leave no room for comfort. Her tightness is stifling and you have to start counting just to breathe again.

“One two-”

“Be quiet.”

But there is no quiet when pleas for your cooperation intersperse her excessive profanities when she seats herself into your cock and ricochets up and down. Sweat emanates from her creamy skin while her legs widen to find a better angle for her supporting knees in her cowgirl position. Grapefruit and other citrus mingle with the scent of the sweat, fruits you haven’t seen except on billboards in music videos. As much as your mind crackles and your blood roars for every atmosphere of pressure Karina’s walls provide on each thrust in and out, you can’t help but reminisce on sweeter, more innocent times.

The white fluorescent lights in your apartment sputter. For all the advancements in technology, some among many things never change. Light refracts differently in air, less bright, but you can see the pure enjoyment on Karina’s face no matter the luminescence. Karina slows her ride to pull her hips down harder instead and she jolts when your cock finds the most tender spots inside her pussy and it interrupts her babbling.

Karina almost hyperventilates when she gets up to spit on your cock. She pulls out some kind of meter from her tool belt and sighs when there’s no beeping and you recognize it having to do with carbon dioxide. She gets back to dribbling saliva and the filament trailing down to your shaft mesmerizes you. This spit is real, not simulated, and it wettens your erection in a mix with her pussy juices to paralyze you further in your already listless state. Her bare thighs jiggle and you can’t exert much force with your hands but her buttcheeks are firm with just a bit of give.

“Thank you for this cock, thank you for being bad,” Karina says as you watch her ass sink deeper while her pussy holds your dick taut. She’s frenetic when bounces up and down to play an unadulterated orchestra of slick noises between your groins.

“You’re welcome,” you accomplish getting out the words between planned breaths. Your hands cup her buttcheeks but you fear they may break with how she strikes her ass into you.

Karina turns around once more to give you the spectacle of her facial expressions as she fucks herself into you. Knead her calves laying on your torso and they take no energy to spread them though she brings them back together, compressing your hard shaft within her pussy. A new game you play with her, a separate rhythm of loosening and tightening. Her feet press on your chest to help her bounce, but the way they bear down on your lungs against the timing of your breathing causes you to fumble. Your cock bends straight forward as she plunges herself into you and it sends prickles to your entire skin, making the new angle difficult but worth it. Karina takes your hand and starts sucking on your fingers.

“You want my promise that bad?” you say.

“Yes, as bad as I want your cum. I swear, I need it.”

She draws her knees up to her torso and hugs her legs to keep thighs as tight together as possible. Karina couldn’t keep her word, she was trying to kill your cock with constriction.

“Fuck, your pussy is so fucking tight. God, Karina, fuck. You’re so good.” Even if good isn’t the word you want to use to describe her.

“Do it, please, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, baby. Karina can be a good girl, a good maid, a good cop, whatever you want. Just don’t get me in trouble, please.”

Karina’s mouth stops saying words though her lips writhe, drunk in increasing lust. Her cheeks flush, before the rest of her skin joins in redness while she grapples your chest and whatever spare limb she can find. You still struggle wresting control of your body but nature seems to take over when you drive yourself into her and match her needy cadence. The air in the room is replaced by a new air but it isn’t Aether. Passion, sweat, heat and all fluids that you both exude join squelching sounds, slaps and moans in harmonic bliss when her body tenses and she screams. As her body tightens, her pussy especially holds your cock for dear life and endeavours to wring out all your semen as her wetness throbs and spills. Karina starts counting to three repeatedly and you laugh though your amusement quickly subsides when you feel her juices become more viscous and she continues her ride, even in the dying pulses of her climax.

“Was I good?” Karina asks.

Just a moment goes by before you mentally send her a screenshot of all the recordings being deleted. Karina hasn’t stopped fucking you yet so at least it wasn’t a ploy.

“Thank you, thank you, I love you.” The flexion of her pliant legs brings them all the way back to rest on top of your legs. Karina lays prone above you and finally give you a kiss. The citrusy flavor may be closer to lime than grapefruit but it’s been so long that you can’t remember which scent is which. Lips crash and her tongue lashes out at yours trying to establish dominance. Keep still to let her investigate your mouth while her pussy does the same to your shaft.

You savor the way Karina’s top emphasizes the bouncing of her tits synchronous with the rebounding of her waist on your cock, but your mouth waters when she frees them. Take the shortest moment to relish in the sight before Karina smothers you with her plump globes. You wriggle your face to try to breathe. Inhale, up and exhale, down, but all you inhale is the scent of her orbs’ sweat. Her hips undulate with a pace at least double yours breathing and the echoes of slapping flesh resonate throughout the air-filled chamber. The loudness is unlike any you’ve experienced in a long time. It’s almost a flashbang every time her ass slams into your lap, especially as you start to see white when orgasm threatens to overload you with preludial pulses.

The last words you hear infected ten million computers in 2000. Fade to black. Cut. You’re slammed out of existence back into existence as a sun rebirths both within you, heating your core to a dangerous high, and from your eyes, dazzling you in an unforgiving white light. In the throes of unconsciousness relapsing to consciousness back to tenebrosity, your streaks of semen suspend in the Aether like a dead tree resting from the wind. What flashes your mind in its orgasmic state are two things only you would remember, plants and weather. Your hyperventilation is unconscious but not unwelcome, as it’s the first time in a while your breaths were reflexive even in the liquid air. However, basking in your newfound power, you start to choke. Right. You breathe in and out again. In and out. In. Out. In. Out. Back in.

“Replaying KarinaArrestsYou.mp6.” A hint of vexatious glee in the system’s otherwise dry voice. You don’t stop for it.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

AFF, AO3

It’s pretty silly but the idea danced around in my head ever since I saw the absolute Black Mirror concept that SM had for aespa and I concur that Karina is insanely hot.

As I’m writing this, this Kurzgesagt video on the idea of a rogue Earth comes out and now I have to rewrite stuff to make it at least a little consistent. I’m obviously already going nuts with all these ridiculous sci-fi concepts but this video almost feels too targeted to me writing this for me to ignore it.

#kpop smut #aespa smut #male reader #reader insert #title tracks

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milfcodeddean · 4 years ago

Text

Memento Moratus Sum

Emma Haunts the Necklace- The Fic <3

Starts more post/concepty and becomes a fic bc I did not plan on this it was stream of consciousness! I have not seen all of the later seasons and it was hard to keep track of what plot points to mention even of all the seasons I have seen!

AO3

Emma dies and Dean keeps her necklace to have something to remember her by, partly out of grief for what could have been partly as an act of emotional self flagellation. He wears it under his shirt, a secret, just like any thoughts he has about his dead daughter.

Emma is a ghost because she didn’t do enough to be a monster and earn her place in purgatory but she isn’t human enough for heaven and she’s anchored to the necklace.

She follows Dean around silently, quickly learning enough about ghosts to know if she reveals herself too soon or ever really then Dean is going to burn the necklace.

During season seven Dean is haunted by two ghosts, Bobby, who is actively reaching out for him, and Emma, who is a silent observer. I think Emma hides from Bobby, he’s a hunter and she doesn’t want him to tell Dean about her, OR Bobby sees her before she knows ghosts can see other ghosts and they talk and he pities her but agrees to not let Dean know

Dean is wearing the necklace when he goes to purgatory. Emma is still a ghost here but it’s different, and she’s been watching this man for months now, he’s her world now. She keeps some of the monsters away, she makes him wake up when there are threats at night, she watches him befriend a monster and burns with pain at the knowledge that maybe she could have had that. Maybe she didn’t need to kill him, maybe he would have loved her not just as a dead hypothetical but as her.

Dean comes out of purgatory with an extra extra passenger. She watches with a sense of smugness as he rages at Sam, she pretends he’s also mad over her. She doesn’t like Sam’s attitude towards Benny either. She gets to see her great grandfather and she sees him die. She talks to his ghost, he calls her granddaughter (forgetting the great) even after learning she’s an amazon, before he gets reaped.

There’s an empty room in the bunker she pretends is hers. She moves objects in there, never quite decorating, but practicing telekinesis where Dean won’t see it and making up a fantasy of a life she could have had. She still never minds being tethered to Dean, especially now as he doesn’t sleep around and spends less time in bars where she’s left uncomfortably watching. She likes going to the grocery store, she likes watching him cook, maybe a few times she’s kept a pot from boiling over or a bag from falling. She’s learning to live from watching Dean, he doesn’t know it, but he’s teaching her life skills. She doesn’t know the names for the dishes he teaches her to make or the parts of cars or guns but she etches the motions he makes into her mind. She likes Charlie, she wishes she could meet her, and she likes larping. She imagines herself as an Amazon warrior of antiquity, armored in bronze.

She tried to wake Dean and Charlie out of their djinn dream but nothing worked, she tried to fight the djinn to no avail either. When Dean and Charlie hugged she wished she could be in their embrace too.

She’s glad it’s Bobby’s ghost they use for the trial, she’s so glad she never revealed herself.

Sam is slowly growing on her, she doesn’t love him but he means enough to Dean that she would try to stop him from dying.

She knows about Gadreel. She hides harder now, afraid too of the new angel in the bunker. Castiel she likes, Castiel she watched in purgatory and she watched beat her father bloody in the crypt and she understood brain washing and the control of authorities. She almost reveals herself and her knowledge of Gadreel when Dean kicks Cas out of the bunker, but her hesitation lasts too long.

She’s tethered to Dean so she isn’t there when Kevin dies. Kevin had been another one she enjoyed observing, she envied him his mother in so many ways, Linda had been everything Lydia hadn’t been. When Kevin dies he’s haunting the bunker too. It’s almost like having a friend. He pities her, but she’ll take anything, he’s sort of her age in some ways and she teaches him how to be a ghost.

Crowley almost gives her away. He knows she’s there, but he saves her presence as a bargaining chip against Dean, a surprise tidbit to bring up later.

The father of murder can see her too. Cain keeps his eyes on her father most of the time, but the spark in his eyes and smirk when he sees her and her bloody pink shirt cut straight through her.

Her father dies. She wants to run to him, to fling her arms around him and greet him with her bloody lips and stained shirt and tell him she forgives him and she loves him and she’s sorry he’s dead but can she at least spend some of eternity with him and she wants to teach him to be a ghost and she wants to tell him so many things she’s noticed. But Crowley does something that locks her voice and powers and keeps her from the room.

Demon dean leaves the bunker with Emma’s necklace ripped off and dropped beside a bedstead.

Sam picks up the necklace. Emma hates him touching it but it’s all she can hope that he doesn’t destroy it. She doesn’t know if he recognizes it, but he doesn’t throw it away, and brings it out to show Castiel as evidence for Dean’s absence. Castiel names it as Amazon gold, recognizes it as Dean’s, but does not know it’s origin. Emma has to hear her story from her murderer’s lips. She almost shows herself, but she’s afraid Sam will cast the necklace into a fire. If they could do that to Bobby, they’ll do it to her. But she doesn’t feel like a vengeful uncontrolled spirit, perhaps it’s the Amazon magic, but she feels calmer than she ever was during her days of life.

Her necklace stays in the bunker, she watches demon Dean from a distance at first, she tries to comfort him strapped to the chair but he calls her a hallucination and lets something between a sob and a laugh out before turning away. She tries, she wipes his brow, she begs him to become human again or to die, she tries to keep the devil’s trap intact. Still she is called a hallucination. It’s almost nice to be important enough that he’d hallucinate her.

When Dean, normal human dean, is back, he fixes the necklace with pliers and holds it staring at it in his hands. He’s alone in his room. Emma gently puts her hands over his where they are clasped around her anchor to him. She doesn’t know if he can feel her. Her name comes from his mouth in a breathy whisper, wet and rough, a word unused to being spoken. He bends over himself, weeping with the necklace pressed to his mouth. Emma weeps as well. He would not weep if he did not love her, but he is a hunter and she has to chose between this silent spectatorship where she can pretend she is living in rooms beside him, or the knowledge that if he knew she was haunting him, he would burn the necklace to send her on.

She doesn’t know if there’s another afterlife for failed amazons, and from what she understands of Heaven, hers would be something pathetic like the day she met Dean before she died, or an eternity as a ghost watching him weep.

She hates watching Dean with Amara those few days. She hates the burning wretched envy risking corrupting her as he holds a baby girl that isn’t her. She hates that Amara loves Dean. And she hates even more that Amara brings back Mary instead of her.

She never realized that she wanted to be brought back and resurrected so badly and that it was even an option until she watches Dean reunite with Mary.

Dean mentions her to Mary- almost - he says he had a kid, and the cut off gesture to the necklace means her. Emma stopped minding that Dean never spoke about her. She didn’t want him to talk about her with Sam, and she quickly realized he didn’t talk about his grief with anyone. But he did wear her necklace, and sometimes he took it out from under his shirt and rubbed his thumb over the metal and she would pretend it was his thumb stroking the back of her hand. Dean didn’t talk about her and she didn’t need him to. But now he had, and with his mother. And he implied he had thought about what he would want for her, that he wouldn’t want his life of violence and moving for her.

Emma likes Mary as a warrior woman, but can’t help but understand Dean’s pain when she leaves. She understands being the surprise child older than a parent wants too much.

She tried to help Dean as she always has, but the British Men of Letters terrify her. She knows they would either keep her to study or destroy her and she can’t trust anyone to keep her secret from their spying.

Later it seems the world collapses again. Cas dies. Angels don’t have ghosts, she can never meet him. And Kelly has eyes only for her son until she is reaped. Emma wishes she could comfort Dean or that she could truly leave him to his grief. She turns away as he ties Castiel’s body with yellow curtains. She stands beside him watching the pyre.

She doesn’t understand Dean’s attitude towards Jack. She’s watched jealously how Dean interacts with Krissy, with Claire, with the orphan boys at the home, and she has her fantasy of how Dean would have treated her had she lived. The jealous part of her doesn’t want Dean to like Jack, but most of her wants Dean to go back to acting like how she expected him to, she wants the man she could pretend was being her father. And she watches Jack enough to be afraid of their similarities. To see herself in him. And if Dean hates him, would he have hated her. Does he only wear her necklace because she’s dead.

She watches silently when Dean finally breaks, confronted, and tells Sam that he sees her in Jack. She hears how he loves her. She watches Sam realize the enormity of his crime and apologize. She accepts the apology, even if it wasn’t meant for her ears. Dean doesn’t see her, but she sits beside him on the opposite side of Sam on that floor.

Something has changed.

Sometimes, it seems like Dean is glimpsing her out of the corner of his eye. He stares at the steamy bathroom mirror while he’s shaving, right at the red smear on the pink of her shirt. He nicks himself, swears, and swipes a hand through the steam, through her image. He does double takes in the rear view mirror, glancing twice at the backseat where she sits, pretending she’s part of his road trips.

Jack brings back Castiel. Jack has powers beyond what Emma could have imagined. And Jack is both nice and not fully indoctrinated into hunting ways. Emma also likes Jack, she understands so much about him, and she likes the shows he watches, she likes the way he’s nice, and in her elaborate fantasy of what if she was alive, she decides he’s her brother.

It’s hard to find a time when Jack is alone but near enough to Dean and the anchoring necklace that she can talk to him, but it happens.

Emma focuses everything she has into appearing, a heavy grounding feeling she hasn’t felt since Dean was a chained demon. The words catch in her throat, unpracticed at speaking, but she blurts out to Jack that she’s his sister, the words spilling fast, that she’s Dean’s dead daughter, she doesn’t tell him that Sam killed her, she’s seen Sam with him, their closeness she can’t decide if she envies or not. She tells him she’s an Amazon, how she’s dead but anchored, how she doesn’t have a heaven or purgatory or hell, how she wants to come back. She tells him that she likes his shows and she tells him she loves Dean and Castiel and she finds things she likes about Sam. He doesn’t look at her with pity. He looks at her with a bright spark to his eyes.

But he doesn’t resurrect her. At least not right away. Apparently he’s been too recently warned off from the idea of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. He thinks she should reveal herself to Dean first, before they decide. Emma hates the idea, she spent all of these years afraid of Dean destroying her anchor, and now she’s afraid of his rejection, what if he resents her watching him all the time, what if he blames her for not doing more. What if he wants her gone instead of brought back.

The Amazons,in their scant days of raising her, taught her to be brave.

Jack asks the family to stay after dinner.

Emma takes a deep breath, more for the instinctive motion than for a need for air, and materializes.

There’s a beat of silence and then a mess of noises. Dean drops a mug, Sam’s chair skids, everyone one is talking at once.

Emma can’t find words to say to Dean, she wants to stare at him as she always does, but she can’t bear to see rejection on his face. She waits and Jack opens his mouth to introduce her but then her name comes from Dean’s lips. It’s like that dark night where they wept in his bedroom again. She has called him many variants of father in her mind in several languages, but it is the most childish “daddy” that slips out.

No one else in the room matters, he looks at her, meeting her eyes instead of the gorey wound, and she gets eye contact without having to pretend she is what’s in his sight line.

He doesn’t ask if she’s a ghost or if she’s dead or any of the silly civilian questions. He only manages “how” before fumbling for the necklace, and she nods confirmation. She wonders if he’s planning on burning it.

He asks how long and suddenly words spill forth, she tells him she’s been here the whole time, watching, she says she sorry about Bobby and Kevin and Charlie and Kelly and Cas and Benny she tells him the ones she helped with being a ghost, she tells him about watching the others move on, she says she’s sorry she couldn’t do more when he was a demon and something in his expression breaks, she says she’s sorry she never showed herself.

He holds up a hand, stopping her before she apologizes again, and says he remembers her when he was a demon, that he had thought she was a hallucination, she nods and cries anew.

She wants to tell him that she’s watched him and loves him and even if it’s embarrassing she wants to say she’s pretended to be alive with him, and she wants most of all to ask if he loves her, to hear it said to her face.

Instead he asks weakly why she’s here now.

She says she wanted to come clean about haunting him, says she’s thought about it for years and was scared he would burn the necklace, says she’s learned about ghosts from him and she’s never felt vengeful, she doesn’t feel corrupted, and maybe it’s because she’s a monster. His face twitches at that word.

Jack interrupts, changing the air in the room and suddenly both she and Dean remember their audience. Sam’s eyes are wet and he looks something close to afraid. Emma hopes the look on Castiel’s face is softness for her too and not just Jack.

Jack offers to bring her back, tells Dean that they didn’t want to do it behind his back. Emma turns invisible again out of the sick swoosh of anxiety that overwhelms her. She barely hears through her ringing ears that Dean desperately agrees and says yes, fumbling to take the necklace off and pass it to Jack.

She’s going to have to wait a few days. Jack is going to bring her back where her body is, and that’s more than 24 hours of driving away, and Dean wants to be there.

It’s a weird car ride, they know she’s there, and she sits between Castiel and Jack in the back of the Impala. They had her pick a set of Jack’s clothes to replace her bloody shirt, they have food and water for her. Emma doesn’t have a name for the emotions she’s feeling and they’re almost overwhelming.

They don’t have to dig her up to bring her back, Jack’s powers allow for that at least, and Emma is glad, she’s watched Dean dig up enough graves to imagine what she’ll look like.

Then Jack’s eyes glow bright gold.

It’s like what she imagines being born feels like. Overwhelming and dark and bright and both blissful and painful. And then she is gasping with real lungs and the sunlight is bright in her eyes and she can feel the textures of her clothing and the grass.

And then arms and hands are on her, Dean is pulling her to her feet and into his embrace in one motion.

She’s never been hugged by him, and it’s better than her jealous imaginings when he held others. She never wants to let go, she feels safe and warm and loved and his hand is on her hair and she can smell him and feel his heartbeat.

He finally lets go and steps back to look at her, keeping a hand on her shoulder and cupping her cheek with the other. There are streaks of tears matching her own on his face. His hands leave only to be replaced by Jack.

Jack’s hug is different but enthusiastic, there are no tears, he is beaming, part proud, part delighted, she can’t help but smile back. He calls her sister and she accepts him as brother.

Castiel does not embrace her, but his greeting his warm and his eyes match his smile. He clasps her hand between his and Emma’s heart swells.

She knows Sam doesn’t know how to look at her or how to talk to her. She doesn’t know what she wants from him either. She knows hes sorry, she’s heard it from his own lips, not to her, but to the only other person to whom it would matter. She smiles hesitantly at him, instead of glaring, and waves.

Then she slips her hand back into Dean’s and lets him pull her into another hug. She feels light and giddy and afraid this is all a dream. If she died and this is heaven then she would accept that too.

But it’s real, she changes out of her bloody shirt and into a blue one of Jack’s, she drinks water for the first time in years and eats fruit snacks from a packet pulled from Castiel’s trench-coat pocket, and a cereal bar.

A few hours later they stop at a nicer diner than Emma usually sees them eat at, and Dean tells the hostess it’s his daughter’s birthday and Emma gets to order foods she’s been curiously watching people eat for years off the menu. The restaurant gives her cake.

Emma’s cheeks hurt from smiling, and Dean’s eyes have not lost their cheerful crinkle and Jack is beaming and even Sam and Castiel look endlessly pleased.

Later there will be harder talks, about the things she’s witnessed, later she’ll talk about haunting their steps, about the years of questions built up, later she’ll realize she doesn’t remember how to sleep and Dean will sit and try to stroke her hair and talk softly and it’s nice but not enough. Later it will be Castiel who explains how to become human, how to adjust to having a body, how to sleep and how to tell if you like a food or not. Later she will argue with Dean about her usefulness on hunts and he will tell her how scared he is of her dying again. Later Mary will come back and die. Later Jack will die and a demon will wear his corpse and she will hate and fear it, later God will tell her she is an interloper in his story.

But for now Emma has a family and a piece of cake and a table of smiles.

#emma winchester #emmanatural #dean winchester #dad dean winchester #my writing #this was not planned this was just me thinking Hey what if Emma haunted the necklace and was there watching events and like the Emma feeling #s spilled over into a whole 3.5k fic so #i might put this on ao3? the start is so weak tho #yes that is a reference to buried ghosts and bitter truths

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elvendorx · 3 years ago

Note

i just dug up your posts about J&S and their dynamic on their own and within the Marauders four and I am simple enamored with everything you say, i would read a whole essay if you had one <333

also can i get 5 and 44 for the ask game?

Ahh thank you so much, I decided a while ago to post what I enjoy so it's nice that it resonates! I have lot of drafts and also some asks that are long overdue responses (my mind's a mess so they take a while to structure coherently but if you’ve ever sent me an ask, I'm not ignoring it I'm just incredibly slow!) so maybe those will do instead of essays?? (although I can’t control my word counts so maybe they’ll feel like essays💀)

Also I just realised you wrote Benefits which I loved! <33

5. What are your fanfic pet peeves? Do they have a huge effect on whether or not you decide to read something?

This is lowkey tough. I don’t have too many pet peeves so much as things I don’t agree with but that I can skim over. Things that I flat-out won't read (mainly ships, and cis mpreg) are things I filter out anyway, I’m good at knowing what won’t work for me by now. It always comes down to characterisation for me, as soon as I stop believing in or recognising the character, I’m out. I do feel like I’m super picky with small things so I try to breeze past things that don’t hugely matter.

Like I often cringe at the way people write house-elves that aren’t in the series, especially house elf names? This is petty of me but “Tippy” and “Tiffy” make my skin crawl. Again, am I just being a mean pedant, but the names of house-elves in the series have harsher consonants - Hokey, Kreacher, Winky, Dobby. I also don’t really like reading about the Potters as having a house-elf because as much as they were rich and pureblood, they were clearly not part of the pureblood elite and I think they’d deviate from the more antiquated, traditional aspects of old wizarding families. In my head Fleamont and Euphemia are old rich hippies but it’s not really a make-or-break.

Dialogue can make or break a fic for me, and dialogue that is just there for the plot and doesn’t take on any traits of the person speaking it is something I struggle to stick with - again that’s characterisation, I struggle with OOC stuff but I also struggle when the characters are like, fine, but essentially blank slates who I wouldn’t recognise if I didn’t know who they were supposed to be.

44. Rant about something writing related.

God, my main writing rants are at myself. Like when I find something I wrote years ago (because I didn't write basically anything between 2017-2021) and I'm like "ooh this is good!" and I've left it halfway through a crucial sentence and because it's been years I can't remember where it was going and I have to abandon it because I don't have the mental room for another WIP right now. But also sometimes these pieces are helpful and fit into other things I’m working on, so swings and roundabouts.

And also just the way I write which is random scenes as they come to me, which I think isn’t an uncommon way to write but I would like it if I made it easier for myself and had a brain that could write chronologically. And I also wish I didn't forget the scenes/sentences I think of on public transport or when I'm in bed about to fall asleep.

More generally, I think the attitude towards writing in fandom needs recalibrating. Writing is a skill, editing is an important part of writing. Within fandom I think you should write for yourself, put what you want to see out there, but at the same time if you rush it and immediately publish it and then get upset that you haven’t had as much engagement as you’d like then maybe just take more time with your work, spend time with it, edit even if it’s just one word or letter at a time. Knowing where you’re headed also immediately makes your work more cohesive because I feel like it’s very clear when a writer has absolutely no idea and just wants to get the first chapter out there for the validation of it, or when a work jumps from one point to the other with no real character journey to get there and like yeah, the release at the end is great but the pay-off is better with the build-up. If it’s for fun and you don’t care, go for it, but I think there’s a lot of entitlement in writing these days that is unsustainable.

#ask #i try so hard to not be salty and mean anymore that i can't tell if this is mean or mild #i think it;s fine

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gloves94 · 4 years ago

Text

A Slytherin [Harry x Slytherin!Reader]

Anonymous Requested:

hi idk if you do these but could u write abt Harry x slytherin oc :) it can be any topic u want angst fluff smut or whatever... I haven’t been able to find anything with Harry and a slytherin girl it’s crazy 💔💔

Rating: PG Warnings: Fluff! Words: 2490 Pairing: Harry x Slytherin!Reader A/N: Hope you like it! Proud of my House! I’ve never really read Harry fanfic so I hope I captured his character right!

Some say being a Slytherin is a curse, but others, truly wise individuals, would differ.

Some sneer and look down at Slytherins for being the House associated with antiquated prejudice and outgrown wizarding ideologies from another time. The House of the Evil, The House of You-Know-Who, The Heirs of Salazar Slytherin.

Ambition. Cunning. Leadership. Resourcefulness.

Are the traits that one’s branded with a crest bearing an emerald snake above their hearts cherish. Traits that can allow one to go far and succeed in whatever it is the witch or wizard’s most deep desires is, regardless of the darkness or the apparent impossibility of the goal.

Nothing is impossible for a Slytherin.

Not even such a feat such as making Harry Potter fall in love.

xxx

“I want him,” The Slytherin confidently claimed her objective from across the Great Hall. She ate her food mindlessly a determined glint in her eyes.

“Who?” Millicent Bullstrode asked squinting her eyes to try and see who her chamber mate could possibly be referring to. The other Slytherin girls attempted to catch a glimpse of whomever she could’ve been referring to.

“Potter?” Pansy Parkinson gagged and turned her head back quickly to grimace in horror to her friend.

“Yes,” She admitted with an overconfident smirk stretching on her lips.

Pansy gaped in horror bringing a hand to her mouth. “Salazar’s beard,” She gasped shaking her head. “But why?” “He’s so arrogant and thinks he’s untouchable,” She scoffed bitterly at Dumbledore’s favorite. “Saint Potter… He’s not even fully one of our kind,” She spat referring to his lack of blood status.

The infatuated Slytherin ignored her and continued to gaze from a far. She was currently fixating on Harry’s permanently messy hair.

“I don’t care.”

She really didn’t. None of that mattered to her. Didn’t know what it was she liked about Harry so much. Her not so secret crush had always been a part of her, kind of like an itch on your nose. It’s right in your face, comes and goes, but you can’t quite put your finger in it. Maybe it was his loyalty to his friends, his bravery, maybe it was how unwaveringly kind he seemed to be to everyone, even to her despite the fact they were both in rivaling Houses. Or maybe it was something else. He was also easy on the eyes.

“Oh, you know how she is,” Daphne Greengrass sighed with an amused smile as she drank her cup of tea. “Loves chasing waterfalls, maybe just as much as Potter loves breaking the rules.”

“It’s never going to happen,” Daphne added lightly nudging her friend. “You know, that right?”

All Slytherin girls arched their eyebrows in agreement.

“That’s okay,” She smiled confidently. “I like the chase.”

Stunned Millicent shook her head in disbelief, “This I gotta see.”

“Ugh!” Pansy exclaimed frustrated. “You’re going to give the House a bad name!” She protested. “Not to mention we’ll probably lose points!”

From across the Great Hall, Ron Weasley elbowed his distraught best friend. Harry was as per usual deep in thought, stressed and distracted by the fact that there was a psychopath plotting to hunt him down (and no not the Slytherin girl).

“She’s starring at you again mate,” Ron spoke in a low voice leaning over.

“Who?” Harry asked not quite paying attention to his surroundings.

“Do you ever pay attention?” Hermione asked looking over her shoulder over to the Slytherin table.

“That Slytherin girl.” Ron also starred. “What did you do to her, she seems- angry?”

Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically and shook her head. “Honestly, the both of you,” Sometimes she struggled to believe that the three of them had somehow managed to outsmart the Dark Lord for more than a handful of years now. Both completely oblivious. Hermione closed her book shut and shaking her head and packed up her stuff. She would let the two of them figure this one out.

“Now what?” Ron asked raising his hands. “What’d I say?”

Harry shrugged just as confused. He turned away from Ron and raised his gaze to meet the Slytherin girl’s. He was surprised however to find that she did not look away. Instead, she kept her gaze steady and a slow smile stretched across her features. There was a mischievous look in her eyes a confident allure that entrapped him and wouldn’t allow him to tear his eyes away.

It was then that he learned she would be nothing but trouble.

Xxx

Trouble always seemed to have a way of finding him.

Trouble had an alluring look.

Trouble was approaching. Harry wasn’t sure if she bumped into him or if he was the one to not mind his step.

Trouble had found him.

“Oh,” She said accidentally dropping the books she had been carrying. “Merlin,” She muttered innocently under her breath kneeling and picking up her scattered notes and texts.

“I’m sorry,” Harry apologized bending down and being the gentleman, he was helping her pick up her books. Snitches and Witches: Women in Quidditch, Advanced Defense Against the Dark Arts, and It’s a Muggle’s World.

Wow, all of these books- they were all topics he was interested in. “You’re-“ He began to acknowledge her name.

“Thanks Harry,” She thanked and took her book from his hand. “You know my name?” The Gryffindork seemed a little startled by this.

“Well, of course I do,” She tugged a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, it’s in our History of Magic book,” She smiled at him sweetly and stood up.

Ah, yes of course.

Harry was about to ask her another question, but she left him standing with the word on the tip of his tongue.

“I have to go,” She batted her eyelashes at him. “Nice running into you Harry,” she smiled at him before walking away. There it was again that teasing smile that seemed to scream danger, those crazy eyes that seemed to peer into his soul and the trailing scent of sweet perfume he had smelled somewhere before as she walked away from him and turned back to flash him a smile he wouldn’t forget. To his surprise Harry found she had forgotten a parchment behind. He called for her, but she had already vanished around the corridor.

Curious he picked up the note and unfolded it.

‘Meet me in the Forbidden Books Section at Midnight.’

Xxx

Of course, it had been planned.

Everything leading up to this event had been planned. It had been weeks of flirting from a distance. From little innocent looks to even smiling at each other from across the classroom.

Only a Slytherin would be resourceful enough to ask around what Harry Potter’s interest where, what his timetables looked like, where he spent most of his time, who his closest friends are, did he have any love interest?

Ginny Weasley who?

“Oi, Blaise,” Our protagonist said to her friend during History of Magic. “Didn’t you say you found girl Weasley to be attractive?”

Blaise simply shot her a glare. Why on Earth would he ever go for a blood traitor such as Weasley? “I bet you even a handsome bloke like yourself wouldn’t be able to woo her,” She gave Zabini a sly look. He ignored her. “I guess even she’s out of your reach Zabini,” she let out a sigh slightly dropping her shoulders.

Determined. Unaware of the manipulation. That made Blaise Zabini take Ginny Weasley out of the picture. At least temporarily which was part of the Slytherin’s ambitious plan.

That meant she wouldn’t be a distraction anymore.

It was midnight and the Slytherin girl patiently awaited hidden in the Forbidden Books section. She was careful not to be seen when leaving the Slytherin dormitory. It would be unfortunate if a prefect on duty or even worse if Snape himself caught her sneaking out.

Even worse, caught her sneaking out to see Harry Potter.

Hearing footsteps, she turned around yet saw no one. Just dusty books and moonlight creeping through the large windows. She was alone in the library, or so it seemed.

Eyes wide, she held her wand ready to light the room or attack if necessary.

There was no one there.

Paranoid she once again lowered her guard. It seemed like Harry was late, but he was definitely showing. She had no doubt about it. Everything had been calculated and carefully planned. He was at least that much of a man to reject her to her face and not stand her up.

Another wooden creak.

Turning once again this time with her wand lifted, she knew there was definitely somebody watching her.

“Who goes there?” She barked her tone demanding.

She wasn’t expecting a small yell to be caught in the back of her throat when a hand was placed on her mouth suddenly silencing her. Harry magically appeared before her eyes unraveling from an invisible cloak.

“Shhh….” He whispered holding her close. “Snape is here.”

Both turned to look towards the entrance of the Forbidden section where they could see light creep through the opening door.

Without any hesitation Harry pulled the invisible cloak over both of them hiding them from any prying eyes. The two pressed their bodies against the wall of books. Shoulders rubbing together from the closeness. She could smell the scent of his shampoo. What was that delicious scent sandalwood? The Slytherin’s breath hitched as her heart began to race. This had not been part of the plan.

She didn’t even want to think about what Snape would do to her. The two might even be expelled having been found in such an inappropriate setting.

“I know Potter is grandiosely skulking around Professor.” “You best be right Malfoy,” Snape sneered back at his student as the two carefully looked around the room. The Professor seemed more irritated than ever, the circles under his eyes darker from lack of sleep.

The Slytherin cursed under her breath. Leave it to Draco to want to bust Potter in the act of sneaking out. No doubt the selfish prick didn’t mind her being part of the collateral as long as Potter suffered.

“I thought I heard something,” Draco said passing right in front of them. Nervous, the girl clung to Harry’s arm tightly squeezing it as the two held their breaths. One wrong move, a sneeze a loud breath and both would be in serious trouble.

“I heard he was meeting a girl here,” Malfoy continued. His head rapidly turning around as he scanned the room for any clue that Harry might be here.

Harry turned his head and then whispered, “I don’t think they’re leaving any time soon,” not that she minded being like this all night. When Snape and Malfoy were a safe distance away. His closeness and hot breath on her ear made the girl’s skin curl with goosebumps. Her grip on his arm relaxed slightly. Using her cunning the Slytherin quickly devised a plan.

“Not on my watch,” she muttered sticking her wand to poke out of the cloak. She pointed at the entrance of the library from a far and with some quick spell work made the door open and-

SLAM!

The slam shattered the loud silence in the room and instantly Malfoy and Snape turned towards it. “They’re leaving!” Draco exclaimed as the two fell for the red herring and rushed out of the room with their wands out.

Neither Harry nor the Slytherin moved an inch. Both remained still petrified in their closeness waiting to be sure the Slytherins were gone. An eternal minute passed before Harry let out a loud breath of relief. Laughing, the girl removed the cloak, the Gryffindor couldn’t help but chuckle at the fact they had almost gotten caught. He watched her in the dim moonlight appreciating how proud she looked at her accomplishment.

Realizing this she looked at him too, this time shyly, tugging a lose strand of hair behind her ear. Both had almost forgotten why they were here.

“So, you came?” She approached him boldly.

He couldn’t remove her eyes from hers and suddenly Harry felt cornered by her presence.

“We’d be good together, don’t you think?” She said playing with the insides of her sleeves. Harry swallowed hard, suddenly losing his voice. “See, that’s why I came,” He managed to say, his voice dropping to a lower tone.

There was so much on Harry’s plate always. Everyone around him was constantly in danger. He was a Gryffindor, and she was a Slytherin, both were supposed to be natural enemies. His friends would hate her and hers already hated him. Any information any activity – with so many Slytherins involved in You-Know-Who’s doing it was especially dangerous for her. But why did he want to go against the logical choice? Why did he want to say yes to her so badly?

“What if..” He began but couldn’t bring himself to spiel his miserable thoughts to her. “I’ll break your heart,” he shook his head regretfully.

Not to mention those moment when You-Know-Who... Those dark flashes he couldn’t control. He could hurt her.

He was expecting her to falter, to step down and walk away but instead she laughed a little, almost with arrogance. “Nobody breaks my heart,” She paused. “But maybe I’ll break yours,” She smiled coyly reaching for the edge of his crimson robes.

“I’m sorry,” He sincerely apologized to her.

Nodding bitterly, she finally stepped away with her head lowered with the embarrassment from his rejection, her eyes avoiding his perturbing green ones. Accepting they were star crossed lovers.

Feeling guilty Harry tried to make his rejection less painful.

“It would never work out,” he began to explain. “We’re too different, our Houses are enemies, and then there’s Voldem-“

“So, you don’t deny it?” She interrupted him. This time glaring at him with a terrifying fearlessness. They weren’t the eyes of somebody that had accepted rejection. He looked struck by her determination.

“You don’t deny you’re just as attracted to me as I am to you?” If he accepted, she would step down, she would leave him alone. However- if he didn’t deny his feelings…

Harry was quiet for a moment before speaking. “I don’t,” He admitted truthfully.

The Slytherin couldn’t help but smile at his confession. “Then?” She took his warm hands in hers. They were larger, square, welcoming and well fitting against hers like a complete puzzle. “So what? Who cares what the others think? I don’t,” Her smile grew, and she leaned in closer to him. So close her voice also dropped. “Besides, like I said, we’d be good together. Together there’s nothing we can’t handle. Even You-K-“ She reassured him with boldness. “Even Voldemort,” speaking the taboo name tasted odd to her.

Her hand was greeted by the cold absence of his.

Maybe this had all been one foul idea…

Maybe he was right.

Feeling his hand caress her face she stood struck by the gentle gesture. He spoke her name so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “Can I kiss you?” He asked tenderly. His fingers tracing her cheek before advancing to bury into the hair on the nape of her neck.

She responded by leaning forward, brushing her nose against his and pressing her lips against his. She didn't mind his glasses, she didn’t mind this one bit. The Slytherin held him close her arms gently slithering up and clinging around his neck greedily holding him. He held her head in place tilting it to the side as their lips touched in a sweet kiss in the empty darkness. His lips were so soft, welcoming, they moved against hers perfectly, even gently nabbed at hers. It was everything she had dreamt about.

She smiled into the kiss, after all, a Slytherin always gets what they want.

xxx

Hope you liked it!

Harry Potter Masterlist

My Masterlist

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slashingdisneypasta · 5 years ago

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Teenage!Chucky x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: There Are Worse Things You Could Do

Notes:

This is, of course, based loosely on the song from Grease that Rizzo sings, ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do’.

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is a repressed childhood memory. I know I watched it multiple times, but I forgot everything. This is only barely relevant.

I’m obsessed with teenage!Slashers x Readers... I don't think I’ve written for normal adult Chucky, oops.

Plot:

You’re having an emotional night, when all the things build up and you just feel like crap. And on the top of the list? Why, what everyone else seems to think of you, of course! Its always the way.

Don’t worry though, your no-judgment friend comes to lay out the law. There are worse things you could be doing, babe.

And, theirs also romance brewing if you read the bonus part XD

Warnings: Talk of slut shaming, sexual references, swears- a general PG rating though I think? Not worse then How I Met Your Mother I don't think, except it contains more swears.

~~~

“Hey, sexy legs. You’re usually in bed by now aren’t you?” Chucky’s voice calls through your open window and your phone, and you look over to see him there rather then at his home, talking to you on the phone. Your eyes widen from surprise, appropriately. As one would do when someone climbs through your window without warning.

“What are you doing here??” You get up quickly and close your bedroom door. Everyone else in the house is asleep, but you aren’t taking any chances, and lock it as well. You should be in bed, honestly. You’re in your pyjamas and everything -Oversized hoodie and undies, -. You know you would probably feel better about… the world in general, or more specifically yourself in this particular instance… if you did go to sleep for a while. You’re aware. You know this. But… no. Something in you says to just stay awake and suffer through it.

Its lovely.

You two sit down on your bed, getting comfy at the headboard beside each other as he explains, coarsely and shortly, that he doesn’t like talking on the phone. You don’t know why you’re comfortable with Chucky -he’s crude and reeks of bad decisions, -, but… eh. You started talking to him at the start of the year since he was the only other person in one of your new classes that didn’t have a friend there, and he stuck like a bad smell. You are pretty attached to it -him, - though, you guess. Gathering a pillow to your chest and raising your knees up to chin level, you chew the inside of your cheek instead of responding again. You don’t know what to say. He knows how you feel right now- maybe he’ll impart some wisdom onto you.

Peaking over at him and his frustratingly untaken care of hair, you roll your eyes. Yeah right. Chucky cant even take care of his, now, thicket of hair.

When he doesn’t say anything, just looks down the bed at your doona cover, you gather the courage to fish for an explanation. “Why are people so mad that I’m a-a... a… “Suddenly, the word ‘slut’ dies on your tongue as your heart makes a pained yelp about it. Usually, you don’t have a problem with the word. Why should you? Its’ just a word. But… but the looks you get from the people who say it, those hit a different hit a different way. And that’s what has messed you up tonight. Cold looks and disgusted mouths, like you’re a used rag… full of fucking STD’s, or something… Touching your lips instead to the pillow, you shake your head. “Why are they so mean?”

You’ve never hurt anyone. Any guy that you engage with is fully aware what’s happening; You never lead them on to think it’s anything more then just sex. And the last thing you would ever do is make someone uncomfortable- in fact, you probably do too much to avoid that possibility.

But people still… you don’t understand. You don’t understand. Why can’t you just do something you like? What do you have to do to make it okay??!

He rolls his head against the headboard to turn and face you. You don’t shy away from his dull, deadly serious gaze. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? People suck.”

“I, don’t suck.” You press your lips firmly together in a straight line. Even if you are feeling crappy, you wont sink into a puddle of self-despising gruel… even if that is, in fact, how you feel inside. Saying it would only make it real, and some things just don’t need to be made real. Fake it until you make it, cry-baby. You nod to him. “You don’t suck… “Then your lips quirk up a bit, to lighten the mood. “Much.”

“No, see, that’s why I hang out with you! So supportive and encouraging.” He forces a grin for your benefit, looking forward again but this time towards the ceiling. Why is he so down, you wonder?

You force a laugh from your chest. “Yeah.” Closing your eyes, enjoying a little bit the cold of the wood of the headboard against your cheek. “I just don’t understand- “

“Y/N.” The sternness and the steely annoyance in his voice suddenly, cause you to open your eyes and see what’s on his face- ah, it matches his voice. “The only thing you haveta’ understand, is that those people that talk about you because you fuck around, are worthless. Bitch,” You raise your eyebrows and widen your eyes at the name he just called you and he let’s out a dry laugh, looking amazed for a moment as he thinks about those people. Then, leaning into you and talking like he has all the wisdom in the world in his head, he assures you. “There are worse things you could be doing. Trust me.”

Letting out a deep breath and the tension, your roll your eyes and turn forward, thinking about that. Its true, you suppose.

Hugging the pillow tighter and scooching over to collapse into his side, suddenly wanting his affection as well as his words, and because you’re drained, you sigh. “Sorry, I don’t feel much better, but thank you for saying that.” It may have been put kind of crudely… or very crudely… but you’re aware that he meant well. So, you are grateful. Wordlessly, like its somehow the most natural thing in the world, like you’ve done this together before which you most certainly haven’t, Chucky situates himself to make you both more comfortable. Raising his arm so you can fit under it and resting it over your shoulders and shuffling to fit better against you. “You want to watch a movie with me?” Honestly, you just don’t want him skipping off just yet.

Its nice to connect this way with your friend.

You didn’t realise how nice it would feel to spend time like this with him. You would be very, very discontented if he left now.

“Yeah, but I’m picking which fucking one. Leave it up to you in this state, and you’ll put in freaken Sound of Music.”

A few minutes later, after Chucky has thoroughly looked through and critiqued, -and you use ‘critiqued’, very loosely. He mostly insults your five movies, - your small DVD stack and put something in, and returned to the bed and your position from before -even throwing the doona over you both, saying his legs are cold. Which, to that, you give him a slow nod. Yeah right. Sure, - Disney’s opening scene plays, with the castle and Tinkerbelle, and you suppress a snort. But you can’t hide the grin, or stop the words from coming out of your mouth. “’Sound of Music’s bad, but ‘101 Dalmatians’ is okay?” The less you think about your feelings before, the less relevant they seem when you look back two minutes in hindsight. You feel more and more your normal self.

“It was this or fucking ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’, and that’s not happening. Your collection sucks.”

“My collection rocks, you dumbass.”

“Shush, its about to start, No talking during the movie.” His eyes are glued to the screen now, as the beginning credits roll. You grin, but scrunch up your nose too.

“Jesus Christ, you’re one of those? - “A wide, spiteful grin rips across his mouth.

“You betcha! Now shut up, theirs a punishment if you talk.”

Quickly, you turn to the TV. “Oh, jeez.” You shut up as he demanded, at the mention of a punishment.

OPTIONAL BONUS! The next morning- you had to see this coming

Waking up in the morning, you rub your eyes and look over to see Chucky’s blurry figure, still fully clothed from what you can tell including his jacket -hopefully not his boots, - you flash the sleeping boy a courtesy smile for how nice he was to you last night and move your stuff body slowly off the bed and out from under the covers. You imagine your stiffness if from staying in one position the whole freaken night- it was nice, but now your back and your arm are dying.

But… as you put up your hair in a quick ponytail and walk by the mirror, ready to get dressed and wait around for Chucky to wake up so you can see him off, you realise something is… missing, here. Looking down immediately, you realise what it is, and your eyes grow wider then ever before. Like, a full on ‘Oh-My-God-I-Didn’t-Even-Realise-Or-Remember!!’ face and you would have gasped loudly if you hadn’t thought quickly and pressed your lips hard together.

Your underwear. Your underwear is what is gone.

“Goddamnit Y/N, tell me you didn’t… “You whisper, panicking shortly as you pull on some clean ones, and then tip toe around the bed, looking for any sign that Chucky’s pants are anywhere but on him. When you don’t find it, you go ahead and pull up the blanket at the end of the bed and check -not pulling up high enough to see anything but his legs below the knee at first, - that his legs are covered in the pants. You let out more and more of a relieved breath as he continues to be covered all the way up to his waist. If anyone were watching this, they would laugh like a hyena at your antiques and your expression.

But, even as you discover that he still had his bottom garments on, memories come right back to you from the night and you realise how doomed you are.

It happened. It sure did. You and Chucky Ray fucked last night. Oh god! Oh, dear god!

“I mean, thank God I had condoms in here at least?” You mutter to yourself, sinking down on the bed and covering your face in your hands in embarrassment. “Ugh… “

Also, you think as you remember the events, face still in your hands, it was really good. Not the point right now, but you did learn an important thing last night.

It sure ain’t about size- what they say is true. It really is about what you do with it.

Y/N goddamnit that is absolutely not the point here.

“Aghhh, I knowwww… “You whisper back to your own thoughts.

A minute later, Chucky wakes up and you peak over your shoulder at him when he sits up, as guilty as a child with jam on your hands. You don’t actually have any jam of course, but there certainly is a stain somewhere. And a certain sticky sensation still under your underwear. “… Hi Chucky. Do you… happen to remember… what happened last night?”

He but smirks at you.

You respond by deadpanning. Well, in that case, you’re not embarrassed anymore either. Getting up, you scratch the back of your head and move to goon with your day. Shower, first of course. “Okay, well if you’re done here I gotta take a shower and clean up what is probably a nasty mess,” You squint pointedly at him. “That you left, wherever you dropped the condom.” You can’t imagine Chucky was courteous and found a bin for it.

“Goodbye kiss?”

“Wh- “You look back at him from the bedroom door that you were about to leave out of, see him grinning and roll your eyes. Ah, joking. He’s joking. Funny man! Not that you would have kissed him it was a legit request… aha, not at all! You didn’t want that! … hahahaha… “You’re very funny.” Then your eyes widen, and you rush back to your dresser for your body lotion. “Oh! I forgot my- “Focusing on rifling through your dresser, you don’t really pay attention to what Chucky is up to. You do hear him get out of the bed, but you suspect he’s headed for the window. When you find the pretty purple bottle, you go to turn and waive bye to him but end up stuck in place.

He's behind you, and his hands are on your hips again. Keeping you in place this time as you hug your lotion bottle and look like a deer in headlights, vaguely sceptical about this, and find his eyes in the mirror. “… yes?”

“Y/N, I was serious about that goodbye kiss.” A wicked grin catches his eyes that sends a surprising, new feeling down from your heart to… let’s just say another place... “Unless you want me to join you in the shower.”

For a moment you just pause and take in the moment for what it is- very arousing and also the beginning of a wonderful new chapter in your friendship. Then you scoff and smack him gently with the purple lotion bottle. “My parents are awake now, are you crazy? Now go home, I’ll text you later.”

You turn around, as if you’re going to fly past him and out the door but he manages to press forward in time and stick you to the dresser, hands on your waist and knee between your legs now. With the golden morning light slipping through the still open window from last night that he had crawled through, in the perfect light of day and not the secret stars, like you’re actually a couple, Chucky gives you a kiss that you reciprocate all too eagerly. Its just as good as last night, maybe better.

“… Hey Y/N? I have a solution to your problem last night that I think you’ll like. By definition, a slut is a woman who has many fuckbuddies. I have a special onetime only proposition for you babe that’ll grind that number down to just one.”

#Chucky x Reader #Charles Lee Ray #Chucky #Charles Lee Ray x Reader #Oneshot

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kaylewiswrites · 6 years ago

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It’s Not Working: Character Troubleshooting

Welcome to It’s Not Working, a troubleshooting series that I’m uniquely qualified to run because I write things that don’t work all the time. This week, we study characters-why they don’t work, how to know, and what to do about it.

Question time

Think of a character that’s been giving you some difficulty, and answer these questions:

Are you unsure of their motivations, both scene by scene and in the whole plot?

Do they start and end with the same motivations, perspectives, personality, and outlook?

Does it feel like their lines could’ve been spoken by any other character?

Do you have trouble describing their personality, even to yourself?

If you answered yes to these questions, you may have an underdeveloped character.

Do they tend to act differently scene to scene?

Do you not know what to do with them in scenes?

Do they not have a part to play in the plot?

If you answered yes to these, you may have an unmotivated character.

Did you answer no to all of the above questions, but beta readers and critique partners are disagreeing?

Readers can’t understand their personality, motivations, or effect on the plot?

Then you may have an misrepresented character.

Why don’t they work?

Underdeveloped character: We’ve all heard of them before. They come off as bland. There’s no significant development or change to them throughout the story. Characters are your readers’ foothold into the story. If they feel like empty bottles, its going to be a lot harder for people to become invested in the plot.

Unmotivated characters lack one thing: yes, it is motivation. It’s the ultimate reason for your characters to do anything. Why do they feel like they have to save the city? Why do they get upset at that one joke? Without proper and consistent motivation, your readers are gonna get whiplash trying to figure out all the why’s of the character’s actions. And if they’re too busy worrying about that, then they’re gonna lose interest in the plot and the book as a whole.

Misrepresented characters are fully formed, at least to the author. They know everything about them, from their MBTI to the color of their second favorite rain boots. The writer has charts of how their motivations shift throughout the story, diagrams of their highs and lows, but for some reason, when readers get their hands on it, they give feed back like ‘flat’, ‘boring’, ‘generic’. Something needs to bridge that gap between the writers knowledge and what’s on the page.

The Fixes

Underdeveloped characters:

Find character questionnaires, follow character prompt blogs, take personality tests as your character. Really explore who they are as a person.

Make a chart of where they start and where they end. What happens in the plot that can significantly change them and the way they think?

Write scenes from their first person voice. Yes, even if you write in third. Write it like diary entry, write it obnoxiously first person, so first person even first person writers would cringe. Every spelling mistake you’d think they’d make, all the tangents, everything. Get a feel for the way they sound and think.

What makes them unique? What makes them so interesting that you would rather write them than a whole different character? Let this shine through.

Consider cutting them or combining them with another character if they really aren’t doing anything for your plot. I know, it hurts. You can always save pieces of them to use in another project, but sometimes it’s for the greater good.

Unmotivated characters:

Answer the questions: Why are they my main character, and why are they taking part in this plot? If you can’t answer those, then you either have the wrong main character, or the wrong plot.

Fill in this triangle and refer to them whenever you’re unsure of how they should react to something:

Write an elaborate backstory for the character. Why do they come off as stoic all the time, except when they shriek around antique dolls? There’s a story there. You don’t necessarily have to write it in the text, but the more you know about your character, the more credible these choices will feel to the reader.

Have inconsistencies addressed in the story. If they say that they don’t care about anyone on the team, and then run into a burning building to save them, it should be noted. Not necessarily flat out said, but noted.

Tone down big reactions. The wailing, screeching, jumping for joy. Some characters might do some of these things. Some might do some of them sometimes. But one character will very rarely bounce around the peak of every emotion all the time. If you do write that character, it needs to happen very intentionally.

Misrepresented character

Take a good look at the character’s introduction. Are you telling instead of showing? Is the reader distracted by larger plot things during their first scene? Do they have chances to prove their personality traits to the reader through actions or dialogue?

Can you hear them? Do they have a specific voice? Mannerisms? Quirks you can show the reader?

Are you leaving too much in subtext? I love assuming my readers will be scouring my books for clues and subtleties one day. But for major character traits, it’s better to be upfront about it. No one can assume your characters backstory out of thin air. Sometimes you have to be upfront about their motivations

Have you given an accurate, and somehow not boring, character description? If this is where you’re stuck, I understand, I’ve been there. But think of it as a chance not to list off eye color and hair length, but as a chance for each element to tell the reader something about the character. A ‘severe’ haircut gives us a different tone than ‘soft curls’. 'Enough dirt in their nail beds to give an archaeologist chills’ give us one impression, ‘a smile that knows how high her cheekbones are’ gives us another. Play with it. Have fun.

Are you using them in each scene they’re in? Not only as an effect on the plot, but also using the scene to showcase who they are. It should be a symbiotic relationship, scenes and characters.

Some last few pieces of advice:

Don’t kill off a character or make them leave for the rest of the book because you don’t know what to do with them. If they stop having a purpose after a certain point, consider combining that purpose with a character that sticks around.

Don’t kill off a character just because you think you have to

There’s no such thing as ‘needing’ a love interest. If you have a character that is exclusively there as a love interest, they’re probably gonna come off as flat (unless it’s a straight up romance novel, in which case, have a blast).

Don’t feel like you need certain tropes. ‘Funny best friend’. ‘School bully’. ‘Evil dictator’. Don’t put them in unless they actually have something to do with the plot of your book.

We could take about characters for weeks. Months. Years. But hopefully this not so brief overview gave you some ways to rethink any problem characters you might have.

#writing advice #writeblr #writing community #writers of tumblr #writblr #kay's writing advice #its not working: troubleshooting for writers

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blackswaneuroparedux · 5 years ago

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Anonymous asked: I noticed you did post to acknowledge the death of Uderzo, the co-creator of the Asterix comics. I have to ask Tintin or Asterix? Which one do you prefer?

It’s like asking Stones or Beatles? I love both but for different reasons. I would hate to choose between the two.

Both Tintin and Asterix were the two halves of a comic dyad of my childhood. Whether it was India, China, Hong Kong, Japan, or the Middle East the one thing that threads my childhood experience of living in these countries was finding a quiet place in the home to get lost reading Asterix and Tintin.

Even when I was eventually carted off to boarding school back in England I took as many of my Tintin and Asterix comics books with me as I could. They became like underground black market currency to exchange with other girls for other things like food or chocolates sent by parents and other illicit things like alcohol. Having them and reading them was like having familiar friends close by to make you feel less lonely in new surroundings and survive the bear pit of other girls living together.

If you asked my parents - especially my father - he would say Tintin hands down. He has - and continues to have in his library at home - a huge collection of Tintin comic books in as many different language translations as possible. He’s still collecting translations of each of the Tintin books in the most obscure languages he can find. I have both all the Tintin comic books - but only in English and French translations, and the odd Norwegian one - as well as all the Asterix comic books (only in English and French).

Speaking for myself I would be torn to decide between the two. Each have their virtues and I appreciate them for different reasons.

Tintin was truly about adventure that spoke deeply to me. Tintin was always a good detective story that soon turned to a travel adventure. It has it all: technology, politics, science and history. Of course the art is more simpler, but it is also cleaner and translates the wondrous far-off locations beautifully and with a sense of awe that you don’t see in the Asterix books. Indeed Hergé was into film-noir and thriller movies, and the panels are almost like storyboards for The Maltese Falcon or African Queen.

The plot lines of Tintin are intriguing rather than overly clever but the gallery of characters are much deeper, more flawed and morally ambiguous. Take Captain Haddock I loved his pullover, his strangely large feet, his endless swearing and his inability to pass a bottle without emptying it. He combined bravery and helplessness in a manner I found irresistible.

I’ve read that there is a deeply Freudian reading to the Tintin books. I think there is a good case for it. The Secret of the Unicorn and Red Rackham's Treasure are both about Captain Haddock's family. Haddock's ancestor, Sir Francis Haddock, is the illegitimate son of the French Sun King – and this mirrors what happened in Hergé's family, who liked to believe that his father was the illegitimate son of the Belgian king. This theme played out in so many of the books. In The Castafiore Emerald, the opera singer sings the jewel song from Faust, which is about a lowly woman banged up by a nobleman – and she sings it right in front of Sir Francis Haddock, with the captain blocking his ears. It's like the Finnegans Wake of the cartoon. Nothing happens - but everything happens.

Another great part is that the storylines continue on for several albums, allowing them to be more complex, instead of the more simplistic Asterix plot lines which are always wrapped up nicely at the end of each book.

Overall I felt a great affinity with Tintin - his youthful innocence, wanting to solve problems, always resourceful, optimistic, and brave. Above all Tintin gave me wanderlust. Was there a place he and Milou (Snowy) didn’t go to? When they had covered the four corners of the world Tintin and Milou went to the moon for heaven’s sake!

What I loved about Asterix was the style, specifically Uderzo’s visual style. I liked Hergé’s clean style, the ligne claire of his pen, but Asterix was drawn as caricature: the big noses, the huge bellies, often being prodded by sausage-like fingers. This was more appealing to little children because they were more fun to marvel at.

In particular I liked was the way Uderzo’s style progressed with each comic book. The panels of Asterix the Gaul felt rudimentary compared to the later works and by the time Asterix and Cleopatra, the sixth book to be published, came out, you finally felt that this was what they ought to look like. It was an important lesson for a child to learn: that you could get better at what you did over time. Each book seemed to have its own palette and perhaps Uderzo’s best work is in Asterix in Spain.

I also feel Asterix doesn’t get enough credit for being more complex. Once you peel back the initial layers, Asterix has some great literal depth going on - puns and word play, the English translation names are all extremely clever, there are many hidden details in the superb art to explore that you will quite often miss when you initially read it and in a lot of the truly classic albums they are satirising a real life country/group/person/political system, usually in an incredibly clever and humorous way.

What I found especially appealing was that it was also a brilliant microcosm of many classical studies subjects - ancient Egypt, the Romans and Greek art - and is a good first step for young children wanting to explore that stuff before studying it at school.

What I discovered recently was that Uderzo was colour blind which explains why he much preferred the clear line to any hint of shade, and it was that that enabled his drawings to redefine antiquity so distinctively in his own terms. For decades after the death of René Goscinny in 1977, Uderzo provided a living link to the golden age of the greatest series of comic books ever written: Paul McCartney to Goscinny’s John Lennon. Uderzo, as the Asterix illustrator, was better able to continue the series after Goscinny’s death than Goscinny would have been had Uderzo had died first, and yet the later books were, so almost every fan agrees, not a patch on the originals: very much Wings to the Beatles. What elevated the cartoons, brilliant though they were, to the level of genius was the quality of the scripts that inspired them. Again and again, in illustration after illustration, the visual humour depends for its full force on the accompaniment provided by Goscinny’s jokes.

Here below is a great example:

There’s a lot of genius in this. Uderzo copied Theodore Géricault’s iconic ‘Raft of the Medusa’ 1818 painting in ‘Asterix The Legionary’. The painting is generally regarded as an icon of Romanticism. It depicts an event whose human and political aspects greatly interested Géricault: the wreck of a French frigate, Medusa, off the coast of Senegal in 1816, with over 150 soldiers on board. But Anthea Bell’s translation of Goscinny’s text (including the pictorial and verbal pun ‘we’ve been framed, by Jericho’) is really extraordinary and captures the spirit of the Asterix cartoons perfectly.

This captures perfectly my sense of humour as it acknowledges the seriousness of life but finds humour in them through a sly cleverness and always with a open hearted joy. There is no question that if humour was the measuring yard stick then Asterix and not Tintin would win hands down.

It’s also a mistake to think that the world of Asterix was insular in comparison to the amazing countries Tintin had adventures. Asterix’s world is very much Europe.

Every nationality that Asterix encounters is gently satirised. No other post-war artistic duo offered Europeans a more universally popular portrait of themselves, perhaps, than did Goscinny and Uderzo. The stereotypes with which he made such affectionate play in his cartoons – the haughty Spaniard, the chocolate-loving Belgian, the stiff-upper-lipped Briton – seemed to be just what a continent left prostrate by war and nationalism were secretly craving. Many shrewd commentators believe that during the golden age when Goscinny was still alive to pen the scripts, that it was a fantasy on French resistance during occupation by Nazi Germany. Uderzo lived through the occupation and so there is truth in that. Perhaps this is why the Germans are the exceptions as they are treated unsympathetically in Asterix and the Goths, and why quite a few of the books turn on questions of loyalty and treachery.

Even the British are satirised with an affection that borders on love: the worst of the digs are about our appalling cuisine (everything is boiled, and served with mint sauce, and the beer is warm), but everything points to the Gauls’ and the Britons’ closeness. They have the same social structure, even down to having one village still holding out against the Romans; the crucial and extremely generous difference being that the Britons do not have a magic potion to help them fight. Instead they have tea, introduced to them by Getafix, via Asterix, which gives them so much of a psychological boost that it may as well have been the magic potion.

I re-read ‘Asterix in Britain’ (Astérix chez les Bretons) in the light of the 2016 Brexit referendum result and felt despaired that such a playful and respectful portrayal of this country was not reciprocated. Don’t get me wrong I voted for Brexit but I remain a staunch Europhile. It made me violently irritated to see many historically illiterate pro-Brexit oiks who mistakenly believed the EU and Europe were the same thing. They are not. One was originally a sincere band aid to heal and bring together two of the greatest warring powers in continental Europe that grotesquely grew into an unaccountable bureaucratic manager’s utopian wet dream, and the other is a cradle of Western achievement in culture, sciences and the arts that we are all heirs to.

What I loved about Asterix was that it cut across generations. As a young girl I often retreated into my imaginary world of Asterix where our family home had an imaginary timber fence and a dry moat to keep the world (or the Romans) out. I think this was partly because my parents were so busy as many friends and outsiders made demands on their time and they couldn’t say no or they were throwing lavish parties for their guests. Family time was sacred to us all but I felt especially miffed if our time got eaten away. Then, as I grew up, different levels of reading opened up to me apart from the humour in the names, the plays on words, and the illustrations. There is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world.

The thing about both Asterix and Tintin books is that they are at heart adventure comics with many layers of detail and themes built into them. For children, Asterix books are the clear winner, as they have much better art and are more fantastical. Most of the bad characters in the books are not truly evil either and no-one ever dies, which appeals hugely to children. For older readers, Tintin has danger, deeper characters with deep political themes, bad guys with truly evil motives, and even deaths. It’s more rooted in the real world, so a young reader can visualise themselves as Tintin, travelling to these real life places and being a hero.

As I get older and re-read Asterix and Tintin from time to time I discover new things.

From Asterix, there is something about the notion of one tiny little village, where everybody knows each other, trying to hold off the dark forces of the rest of the world. Being the underdog, up against everyone, but with a sense of humour and having fun, really resonated with my child's eye view of the world. In my adult world it now makes me appreciate the value of family, friends, and community and even national identity. Even as globalisation and the rise of homogenous consumerism threatens to envelope the unique diversity of our cultures, like Asterix, we can defend to the death the cultural values that define us but not through isolation or by diminishing the respect due to other cultures and their cultural achievements.

From Tintin I got wanderlust. This fierce even urgent need to travel and explore the world was in part due to reading the adventures of Tintin. It was by living in such diverse cultures overseas and trying to get under the skin of those cultures by learning their languages and respecting their customs that I realised how much I valued my own heritage and traditions without diminishing anyone else.

So I’m sorry but I can’t choose one over the other, I need both Asterix and Tintin as a dyad to remind me that the importance of home and heritage is best done through travel and adventure elsewhere.

Thanks for your question.

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