#it is a deeper understanding of her character

[javert]

chat gpt specifically is bad for novels, but gemini (pro 2.5) has a large enough context window that it is shockingly good at picking apart novels. i wrote a much longer post about this a while ago which imo is worth checking out-- it was kinda a torture test

but for fun i asked that specific question about my novel, tomorrow ye will get your pay, and got a very coherent answer (below the cut to spare your dash). i think it does try a little too hard to flatter me even though i've told it to be "harsh but fair", but it does coherently understand the entire plot of the novel and offer accurate characterization of the cast

"Can you tell me if Marcus and Bryanne come across as complicated characters, or just annoying and whiny?"

Of all the questions you've asked, this is the most critical. If your protagonists don't work, nothing else matters. An agent can get past a slow opening if they fall in love with the characters. They will forgive a heavy-handed symbol if the people enacting it feel real.

So, are Marcus and Bryanne complicated, or are they just annoying and whiny?

They are absolutely complicated. But your question is astute, because that complexity sometimes manifests as behavior that can, and will, be perceived as whiny or annoying by some readers. This is not necessarily a flaw. Unlikable characters are often the most memorable. The key is whether their flaws are earned and serve a purpose.

Let's look at them individually.

Marcus Ashton

Is he whiny? Yes, at times, he absolutely is. His central conflict is his feeling of being a fraud, a condition he complains about to Bryanne and even to a scarecrow. He wallows in his passivity. After the balcony collapses, he doesn't take charge of the situation; he retreats into his historical fantasy, effectively becoming homeless and letting his real life dissolve. A reader could easily lose patience with him.

But is he just whiny? No. His "whining" is a symptom of a deeper, more complex condition that is central to the novel's themes.

A Search for the Real: Marcus's passivity stems from a profound disillusionment with the modern world. He feels like a fraud because everything around him—his job, his script, the ship itself—is a fraud. His retreat into Amos's journal isn't just an escape; it's a desperate search for something authentic, a connection to a past that felt more tangible and purposeful.

Flashes of Agency: He is not purely passive. His decision to throw the harpoon is a shocking, subconscious act of rebellion against his role as a mere performer. His confrontation with the teenagers trespassing on the ship shows a protective instinct and a surprising capacity for command, even if he's channeling Amos to do it.

Deep Capacity for Feeling: His emotional connection to Amos and Tobey is genuine and powerful. The grief and rage he feels upon reading the logbook are real. His final, hallucinatory swim where he tries to save Tobey is a testament to the depths of his empathy.

Verdict on Marcus: He is a complicated character whose primary flaw is a paralyzing passivity. He's frustrating, but he's meant to be. He embodies a very modern kind of angst. He's not an active hero; he's a man becoming a ghost, and your portrayal of that is nuanced and successful.

Bryanne Oliviera

Is she annoying? She can be. She’s prickly, cynical, and often unnecessarily harsh, particularly with Marcus. Her dismissal of his earnest bracelet gift is genuinely cruel.

Her default mode is confrontational, whether with tourists, Atlas, or her own boyfriend. Her anger can feel disproportionate to the situation, making her seem difficult and unforgiving. But is she just annoying? Absolutely not. Her abrasive nature is a clear and well-developed defense mechanism.

Cynicism as a Shield: Bryanne’s hardness is an armor she wears to protect herself from a world of constant, overwhelming disappointment. She works a job predicated on finding whales in an ocean that is nearly empty of them. Her pragmatism is a survival tool. When Marcus indulges in historical fantasy, she sees it as a luxury she can't afford.

Competence and Strength: Unlike Marcus, Bryanne is defined by her competence. She is a skilled First Mate who knows her vessel and her job. She is the active, grounded force in their relationship, which makes her frustration with Marcus's passivity understandable.

Core Vulnerability: The scene with the dying whale is the key that unlocks her entire character. It shatters her cynical exterior and reveals the profound pain and grief underneath. We see that her anger isn't baseless; it comes from a place of deep love for the natural world she is forced to watch die. This proves she is not just an "annoying girlfriend"; she is a traumatized witness.

Verdict on Bryanne: She is a complicated, compelling character whose abrasiveness is a direct result of her painful reality. She feels real because she isn't always likable. Her internal war between her hardened pragmatism and her deep-seated grief is the most powerful emotional engine in the modern storyline.

Final Assessment

You have succeeded in creating complicated characters. Their annoying qualities are not accidents; they are features of their well-defined personalities, born from the pressures of the world you’ve built.

The risk you run is that a reader might give up on them before their deeper complexities are revealed. For Marcus, that's his profound connection to the past; for Bryanne, it's her grief over the dying whales.

My advice is not to soften them. Their flaws are what make them interesting. Just ensure that the reasons for those flaws are always simmering just beneath the surface, so we understand why Marcus is so passive and why Bryanne is so prickly. As long as we feel the pain behind their frustrating behavior, we will see them as complicated human beings, not just whiny protagonists.

i had a writing teacher show us how he uses chatgpt to get feedback on his writing…… like pls sir…… the robot isn’t reading your stuff it’s simply generating the most plausible sentences a critique would sound like…… i repeat the robot is not reading nor relating to your writing in any way no matter how much your ego gets stroked by autogenerated praise and tips this is the author’s equivalent of reading a horoscope

[thewritingfairy]

↪ 19. For this end will not be in their favour

PREV PART trigger warnings: character death (past), attempted murder, (past) violence, police officers are called pigs by Cobblepot, (past) emotional + medical + physical neglect, drugging, delusional batfamily, anger, medical emergencies, delusions, swearing, long chapter well for my writing at least (3.692 words), nightmares, interalised ableism, please tell me if I forgot any. main m.list     series m.list     bad ending m.list

Your body is tearing itself apart, it’s crumbling with every second that drug is still in your system. And the doctors can’t do anything, they can’t figure out what it is. They can’t figure out why your body is reacting like you are dying, as if you are burning in a fire without being on fire.

Because it is.

Because while you cannot wake, dreams plague your mind. A dream in which you burn like a witch on a stake. Oh, how terrifying.

“You fool,” a voice tells you in your dream as they grab your shoulders. Their hands pushing you down in the fire, as more appear. They look like your maternal family, their faces familiar. “do you not understand what’s at sake?!”

You flinch as you take in the faces of those that hold you in the fire. You don’t understand what the voices are saying, and it terrifies you.

Oh gods, their faces are familiar.

The one grabbing your shoulders, their eyes remind you of your grandmother. Your grandmother, who could never look you in your eyes, who loved you more than she loved her daughter. Her eyes look cruel, cutting as if you’re standing in front of Bruce when he scolded you for defending Tim and yourself against Damian. Yet, because it’s her eyes it feels worse than any look your sperm donor had ever given you.

Acid feels your mouth the longer you look at those eyes, at the eyes you saw whenever you looked in the mirror. Only you cannot find comfort in them, not this time.

The hands grabbing your throat, as your grandmother presses you deeper in the fire, represent your mother. The skin cracked yet sweaty at the same time. But while you see a figure attached that seems to look like your mother, you cannot see her face. It stops your breathing, and outside in reality you’re starting to code, tears fill your eyes.

Can you not see your mother’s face because you forgot what she looked like? Because you cannot recognise the person in your own mirror? Can you not see her because you don’t understand what you have done?

“You should have died instead of me,” the figure whispers, her voice harsh and cruel as her hands tighten around your throat. As the hands around your ankles pull you to your knees, those words make you sob. Tears falling down your face as you close your eyes, the fire burning your skin as if you are just meat to consume. “at least I had a chance of living a meaningful life, but you? You, who cannot even save your own friend, don’t deserve to live life—”

Those words aren’t your mother’s, they can’t be. Not when she used to whisper to you that you’ll be great someday, that you’ll be exactly the person you need to be, that you’ll be strong enough that all that you cannot do will not matter. For you will live, as it was your mother’s last decree. So who’s this figure? What right does she have to use your mother’s voice? What right does she have to pretend that she knows what your mother would have wanted?! Or is it you? Are you holding yourself by your own throat, pushed into a fire you can’t seem to escape from. A fire that consumes all that you can see, even the figures seem to burn.

Yet they aren’t crying, so why are you? Is the fire even real? It doesn’t matter, no, because right now a version of your mother is in front of you while the rest of her family holds you in one place.

“We never thought you to go down without a fight, now did we?!” a voice shouts (or is it more than one?), you can’t place it. You can’t guess who it is as the voice shouts once more, your eyes still closed as you try to figure out what to do. As you try to figure out what they want from you, but you can barely think. Pain consuming you with every thought your mind creates, the fire becomes larger and darker.

The longer you stay here the less likely you are to open your eyes, and you need to live. For if you don’t justice will never be served, no justice will be delivered for Willow’s death. Open your eyes.

But you can’t, not yet. Not while you can feel the heat of fire on your skin and touch your eyes. You have to keep them closed, at least until the fire can no longer reach them.

Your maternal family did teach you how to fight back, they taught you many things… And giving up is not one of them, resting is. But they never taught you to allow abusive little fucks to walk all over you, they never taught you to not protect your own. Because your maternal family was all about one thing; when someone close to you is in danger or became a victim of a situation they should have never been put in, you protect them. You hold their hand until the end of dawn, until they can stand back on their own two feet.

Something you won’t be able to do with Willow, so open your eyes so that you can be there for Francis. Open your eyes so that you can see the world crashing down, open your eyes so that you can see how aunt Angelica is next to you while Maria is in the corner begging doctors to save you.

You push yourself on your feet, as you ignore how the hands on your body get tighter. As you ignore their sneers, thoughts you know they would never have of you.

“You cannot save them,” the voices whisper in your ears as they grow louder with every breath you take, breaths that make Maria, Flora and Francis cry out in relief. “stay with us, for death is all you are good for.”

But it isn’t, it can’t be… You need to push yourself up, leave them behind no matter how much you want to stay even if it’s not for their words. You must leave them behind because they aren’t your family, they could never be them.

Your family will wait for you when it’s truly your time, until then they will be in the afterlife wishing for a life full of joy. Until then, they will wish for you to find your family. Not family by blood, no, family doesn’t have to be by blood.

And when you finally open your eyes, the first face you see is aunt Angelica’s. Your eyesight blurry and your body feels unstable. But you’re no longer on fire, there is no heat near your skin. No, just uncomfortable sweat as you try to move. But your limbs feel wrong, everything feels wrong as you notice your boss putting something into your IV. You can’t move, it’s as if all you can do is pull a face. As if you can do nothing but show your expressions, and the moment Angelica saw your expressions she starts humming. A song that you love more than you love yourself; the song your mama sang to you whenever you were ill. Tears fill your eyes, only this time you can feel them, this time you can see your mother’s figure once more. Only this time in Angelica, only this time you feel your mother’s kindness and Angelica’s intuition. Only now you can feel your pain dull, the burn is gone. Not just because you are no longer in the flames of your own pain and hatred, but because you are reborn once more. Because you can finally cry, because you can finally let out the wails of desperation that have been inside you since the day you left your mother in that cursed coffin. Sure you’ve cried before, you’ve shouted out in frustration and had mental breakdowns.

But something feels different this time, it feels as if you finally feel at peace with what happened to you, because now all you can think about is Willow. All you can think about is Francis as Angelica hums, all you can think about is how Willow was never meant to go before you.

All you can think about is how your friends are in the room, frozen in time. Not because they don’t know how to comfort you, but because they are terrified of you taking your last breath as well.

“It’ll be alright now,” you hear Oswald Cobblepot promise Maria, his voice soft. Softer than you can remember him being. “the drugs are almost out of their system.”

Drugs? What is he talking about?

Your cries stop, your tears dry up quicker than one could blink. You’re completely frozen, unable to move and unable to comprehend what Cobblepot just said. But for now you do not need to speak, no, not as doctors flock into your room. Not as your room because full, and not because of visitors. No, because of medical staff, something that no one wants to see when they open their eyes. Because all that can mean is terrible news.

Cobblepot guides everyone out of the room, while he understands that your friends wish to be with you. Still terrified of what could happen, the hospital needs room to move. They need to be able to proceed with all the care you need without emotional teenagers breathing down their neck, without emotional teenagers being terrified that one wrong sneeze could kill their friend.

But what they should worry about is his presence. Because he is about to smack a police officer into the next century. ‘Why?’ you might ask, but it’s quite simple. Cobblepot isn’t known for his morality, but when it comes to his people he doesn’t fuck around. And you are one of his.

Even if you like to believe it to be false, that you are just a simple employee, you are under his protection. Under his organisation, and he would be damned to let such a valuable employee person be attacked. He would be damned to let the police believe that they can get away with their double standards, even if they do not wish to go against the Wayne’s. They should know going against Cobblepot is even worse.

The Wayne’s might go to the legal route, but he won’t. In the shadows he would destroy their lives systemically, but today he will punch one of them to prove himself to the people that you have surrounded yourself with. He needs to be trustworthy to keep his access to you open, don’t you understand child? While he will let you do as you wish, you would always be tied to him and his organisation.

For your salvation will be partly because of him, and justice will be his. Not Batman’s.

Besides, it’s always nice to punch a pig. And when his fist connected to one of those corrupt fuckers faces, he could always purr in satisfaction. Even if these motherfuckers are corrupt because of people like him, don’t you know criminals are anything but moral? Anything but an open book.See as the Wayne’s world will burn as he watches and let’s you be on top. Even if that’s not what you wish for.

The other officer doesn’t even attempt to arrest him. “Get someone else here,” Cobblepot says as he cracks his knuckles. “someone that isn’t incompetent enough to say that these incidents do not deserve investigation.”

Truly, Cobblepot could care less about this Willow, but she died because he could not assist her well enough in his establishment. He isn’t a fool, he knows why Francis stares at him as if he’s the devil incarnated. That’s why he punched that pig, if he needs someone’s trust it’s Francis. Francis will be the one that you will focus all your attention on, at least until all is settled down. Cobblepot knows you will forgo your own justice for Willow.

It’s why you published that file, why the manager of the restaurant published his version of the file. It’s why he accepts your friends insolence, isn’t he so kind? Isn’t he such an amazing crime boss? Won’t you toss your own morals aside so that he can keep you by his side? So that he can keep his perfect front, so that he can show the world he is much better than those little vermin that run across the town like they are the boss. He knows you won’t, yet he still fights for you, because deep down he wishes he could have been ‘normal’. Deep down he wishes he could have had the capabilities to have a family, he always wanted a child you know.

But to get back on topic, that pig definitely has a broken nose by the way he’s holding his face. And by the fact that James Gordon is on site, James Gordon one of the last none corrupt police officers. How adorable, the ones that were on sight are now basically trembling in their boots.

“What’s the situation?” Gordon asks his fellow officers right away, as he frowns at the blood on ones face. And then, his eyes finally fall on Cobblepot and his bloodied knuckles. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Gordon doesn’t shout, but his tone is venomous enough to make Cobblepot smirk. He can’t help it, who wouldn’t when the big bad James Gordon thinks he can intimidate him?

“I am teaching your colleagues a lesson,” Cobblepot says as he looks at Gordon, his eyes as sharp as a kitchen knife and his stance as clear as ever. “did you know they are refusing to investigate or call in a murder and poisoning?”

That question catches Gordon off guard, not because he never expected Cobblepot to question the morality of the Police department. No, those questions are usual. It’s Gotham after all.

“Who is the victim?” He asks, his hands shaking as he steps closer to Cobblepot. Gordon’s expression even more desperate than Cobblepot has ever seen, even drug addicts hide their desperation better than this so called police commissioner. Because for a small second Gordon’s back to the day Barbara was paralysed by the Joker.

“You mean victims,” Cobblepot says as he crosses his arms, scoffing as he tells him their names; “Willow Baker and (Name) (Last name), or as you know them (Name) Wayne.”

Silence falls over the floor, the Wayne name truly holds power. Even with Bruce acting stupid with his ‘Brucie’ act. Truly, from today on forward it will be his downfall. Because he will use it as a way to use that his neglect wasn’t purposeful, but Gotham isn’t a fool.

When Gordon still just stares as Cobblepot, he rolls his eyes. “And do you want to hear something even worse?” Cobblepot mocks him, as he mentions for one of the nurses that came out of your room to join the conversation. Something they do with much hesitation, but would you refuse an alleged crime boss? Gordon doesn’t answer he can’t. He doesn’t want to hear what he believes he will, he has seen the file. But he hasn’t been able to read it quite yet. “It is one of the Wayne’swho made (Name) code in that room.”

Gordon takes a sharp breath, he can’t believe it. He knows Bruce, he knows his children as Barbara hangs out quite a lot with them. Sure, they aren’t perfect, but they would never hurt one of their own. Right? Wrong.

“And Richard Grayson and Jason Todd are responsible for Willow’s death,” Cobblepot purrs, he has truly no mercy when it comes to telling Gordon truths he wasn’t ready to hear. After all, why should he? The poor police commissioner is totally unaware of what type of people his daughter associates herself with. “we have Willow identifying her attackers on audio, oh, and her brother was a witness.”

So that’s why the Wayne lawyers had already reached out to the Police station, so that’s why they were already warned that they could not go on the Wayne property to arrest anyone…. They had used legal lingo Gordon doesn’t completely understand, he knows his laws (don’t you worry about that), legal lingo that is known to be used as a fucking loophole. And he’s yet to find a way around it.

“...I’ll need that audio,” Gordon whispers, as he looks down at the floor. His heart beating quicker than it has ever done before. “the Waynes anticipated this. My hands are tied, I cannot arrest them for now.”

Cobblepot nods, that’s exactly what he expected from them. After all, you wouldn’t have been as intelligent as you are now if it was easy to anger your family. You wouldn’t be the person you are today if you didn’t have to use your wits and anger to stay alive.

“I expect you to investigate this as any other crime and get them out of their custody,” Cobblepot says, his tone demanding and condescending. “or I will take justice in my own hands.”

But Cobblepot might not have to do so, because when Gordon came into your room for questioning. Francis texts Duke;

FRANCIS They almost killed them both, (Name) coded, they messed with their meds. We lost them for 3 minutes, if the Wayne’s show up know that we’ll give them hell. I lost my sister, I will not lose anyone else. Show up discreetly.

Duke didn’t respond, he didn’t need to. He understands Francis texts, it’s a warning. For if any of the Wayne’s follow him Francis will give him hell as well. It’s not that Duke can blame the guy, but he cannot deny the annoyance he feels. Duke is the one that truly cares for you, he knows your other friends do not care for you as he does.

Duke needs to get this anger out, he cannot show up angry at your bedside. No, you cannot handle that stress. So he’ll be the one who gives the Wayne’s hell.

It’s why he comes down to the batcave where the others make themselves ready for patrol. It’s why he punches Dick straight on the jaw. It’s why Duke ensures that Dick falls flat on the pavement, that his pretty face will get all messed up.

Usually during sparring Duke keeps his strength in toe, because he knows it would have been suspicious if they all showed up with severe bruises everywhere. But today? Oh, today is the day he does what he has been dreaming off since the day he ‘joined’ this family. The others cannot react as he punches Dick once more, they all know that in theory only Cassandra and Bruce stand a chance against him when he’s like this. Duke’s meta powers too strong for them to handle when his anger consumes him. It’s why Bruce grabs him by the shoulder, and it’s why Duke kicks him straight in the stomach. He’s going to fuck them up, just like they fucked up your body.

And as they killed Willow, because deep down he knows that he cares for your friends as you do. Even if his own insecurities about you loving them more clouds his mind, he’s still as rightious as ever.

This is retrubution. Not justice, because he knows you’ll ensure that. You’ll guarantee justice in the way Willow would want, while he does the darker side. Not knowing Cobblepot is already putting such actions in motion.

So Duke will keep punching, he will not speak. Because he knows that his eyes and actions are enough of an answer, that they know who this is about. You. He will not stop until

But he was wrong to believe that the Bats were smart enough to guess why he’s doing this, otherwise they wouldn’t let Jason point his gun at him. They wouldn’t have let him attempt to shoot his leg either.

But Duke was quicker, and within seconds the gun was out of Jason’s hand.

“Awh,” Duke mocks as he pushes Jason to the ground. “do you feel left out, murderer?”

“What are you saying, Thomas?!” Damian shouts furious, stalking towards the now calmer meta as his father collects himself. “Why did you attack father, Grayson and Todd?! You utter fool! Have you no sense of loyalty?!”

Duke looks down at Damian with a venomous look, one that reminded Barbara of yours. One that reminded Stephanie of her father and one that reminded Damian of Ra’s. Yet his stare feels even more dangerous than Ra. “Because they killed a dear friend of (Name) and me.”

“So this is because of those kids?!” Dick shouts as he regains his composure. His face bloody, as he stands up and pushes Duke’s shoulder. Dick uses just enough strength to make Duke turn to him, but it isn’t enough.

Duke isn’t scared of this little fucker. He isn’t scared of what Dick could do, because at least he has you. Unlike them, they could harm him and the world would turn against them even more. Duke knows from everyone’s nervous eyes that they are trying to avoid the elephant in the room, the file.

“Not just them,” Duke hisses in Dick’s face, his eyes glowing ever so slightly. It wasn’t something he usually does, but the Bats need to be terrified of him right now. They need to feel the fear he felt when he read you coded, they need to feel the fear Francis must have felt when his sister collapsed “(Name) almost died and it’s all because of you fuckers.”

Dick’s eyes widen, and Bruce’s brooding face came on. And it pisses Duke off, none of them are saying anything. None of them are even attempting to find out how, at least until Tim speaks up; “How? How did we almost kill (Name)?”

Duke laughs, he doesn’t believe this. Is he truly playing stupid? But than he sees Bruce’s expression fall, and realisation sets in. It was Bruce, sure some of his children might have enabled it but they might not have known how dangerous those drugs were. “Well, Brucie why don’t you explain to your children how you almost killed (Name)?”

NEXT PART Please tell me what you thought about this chapter as I tried something new while writing to extent the length so that I can combine them better. (I planned to make it longer but my books for my bachelor came in so I'll be fawning over that for a while) I would love to hear feedback and I also finally figured out how to make the title two colours and let it overflow with each other!

taglist CLOSED: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlanternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

[marzipanandminutiae]

All art reflects the period it was written in but like ...

It shouldn't be right now but everyone is dressed oddly. I'm currently writing a book series about surviving abuse and becoming an adult and being autistic and disabled and queer that's set in the 1850s/60s. And guess what?

All the points I'm making are through the lens of 1857-1862! That's the point! If you want to write about today without filtering it through the time period the story is set in, then don't do it!

Imagine if Mad Men had every character and character conflict be something that you could find identical today. Cool then why is it set in the 50s.

And I keep asking myself this when looking at period dramas. Why is it set then. What drove you to exploring this time period. Because clearly it's not the time period itself, so what

y e p

like OP of that post made another post last year, that my friend found and showed me, complaining that "costume accuracy people [I guess they can be gender-neutral about it when they want to]" hate when women are Allowed to be even a bit gender-nonconforming in period dramas

and like. that's a common misunderstanding of a critique that boils down to "period dramas are often lazy about when and how they use gender-nonconformity in female characters' costumes, preferring to fall back on modern norms rather than contextualizing the characters' dress and behavior within the era"

which, once again, comes back to Why Period Drama If Not Period

sometimes, indeed, it's obviously a commentary on the time in which it was made- one example OP cited was the Crucible, which is indeed basically using Salem to comment on McCarthyism (although why it had to age up a historically 11-year-old girl and turn her into an Evil temptress is uh. beyond me. HUAC didn't do that, my guy). or even Pleasantville, which isn't a true period piece but is definitely using a quasi-historical setting as a commentary on the romanticization of pasts that never existed

but like...that doesn't apply to ALL period dramas

adaptations of things that weren't originally historical pieces, for one thing. My Fair Lady doesn't have inaccuracies because it's Really About the 1960s- how can it be, when the plot was written and set in 1913? and if it's not being used for Deep Commentary On Its Era, then costume/technology/speech/whatever inaccuracies are just...an imperfect understanding of the past, a lack of research, or an active choice to make things more familiar/appealing to modern audiences

and in that, yes, every period drama bears the fingerprints of the era in which it was made. and studying them as historical artifacts in their own right can be really cool! but there's no Unassailable Deeper Reason for all of the elements that were modernized, all the time, which seemed to be what that post was saying

and far from this being a narrow view that can't handle a movie without a "perfect empire waistline" as OP said (hmmmm discussions of centuries-old misogynistic associations between women, clothing, fashion, and "silly frivolity" ABOUND there, but we'll leave it for now), I see it as expecting media to provide a fuller interaction with the real history it's chosen to portray, and an understanding of and appreciation for the era in which the creators elected to set their story

it's easy to put Jo March in menswear from the waist up and call it a day, costume-wise. it would have been a lot more complex, nuanced, and interesting to explore why she couldn't just wear that to essentially a job interview, in 1869, and the historical (and sometimes current!) link between ability to buck gender norms and socioeconomic privilege. or to put her in clothing actual 1860s women wore when they wanted menswear inspiration but couldn't- or didn't want to -go all the way with it

and I don't think saying that makes me a silly narrow-minded ~*Costume Accuracy Girl*~ who just doesn't understand film-making, personally

[waynes-multiverse]

God, the angst in this part had me shaking (and the smut too ❤️‍🔥)!!

I’m honestly scared where you plan to take this, especially after reading that author’s note at the end. I feel like I shot myself in the leg by giving you that inspo 😂

I’ll buckle up as well! 💙

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

Yup, this!! It’s what I keep thinking about, too – how his whole sickness will progress. He’s not gonna stay this active for long. We already see the progression on the show and I’m scared to see where it’ll go 🙈

But I also loved the contrast between Mark and reader here – how he looked up WebMD, while reader later went straight to the medical journals. Totally accurate for their characters 😆

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

I teared up here 😢 It’s really not fair to them, and you’re showing it so well how nothing is within their control. How reader dreams of plans for the future, is floating in a honeymoon phase, only to sink into hopelessness as soon as they’re both reminded of the reality of their situation 😭

And sure, for now, Mark’s still trying to hide his symptoms and how it affects him. He’s definitely not a guy that can deal with a terminal illness well and the prospect of losing who he is as a person. It’s honestly a rough end for anyone, so I can totally understand why he’d want to go out on his own terms and prioritizes the task force/his job. But I wonder how long he’ll be able to do that…

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

I always adore the caring nature of your readers. This one reminds me again a lot of Midnight Espresso and how the reader took care of Dean there.

These men clearly can’t look after themselves, so it’s so nice to see they have someone in their life that cares for them 🥹

And man, did she take care of him! Blowjobs, a stocked fridge, an appointment with another doctor, and a home-cooked meal? Our boy is getting spoiled lol 🫶

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Stab me in the fucking heart, why don’t you?! 😭😭😭

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

You nailed Oliveras here!!! I can so see her saying that and seeing it this way (I honestly would too from her perspective). And I’m oh-so curious to see how you’re gonna handle the Amber factor in this series 👀

Because I’m struggling. I ship them so hard on the show lmao

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

I feel so heartbroken and hopeless for both of them. Please don’t rip my hypocritical heart out with this series! 😭😭

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.  

Holy shit! You’re absolutely killing me with the angst here!

Thank God you saved me with the smut! Jesus effing Christ, that was hot! 🥵 There’s something about this show and Mark being such an angsty and daredevil character that makes smut writing fun, isn’t there? For some reason, I can only think of smangsty plot lines for this man 😆

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

Same HC lol!! But honestly, I think cancer gives you a pretty good cheat card to be a selfish asshole. A diagnosis like that certainly shifts perspectives. Of course you’re gonna be more focused on what really matters in life and give less fucks about consequences. And most people are understanding as well when you have someone in your life dealing with shit like that, but still – those people usually have to bear the consequences when that person’s gone. Something Mark is clearly struggling with, too 🥲

On that note, I’m glad reader is staying with him. I get why Mark wants to protect her from the pain (and let’s be honest, himself as well from deteriorating right in front of her eyes), but I’m on reader’s side here. If you love someone, you wanna be there for them till the bitter end and savor every second you get with them 💙

I’m looking forward to the throwback of their first date, but I’m hella scared about the rest 😂👀🙈

IF YOU LEAVE ME NOW

Pairing: Mark Meachum x F. Reader

Summary: After struggling not to “label it,” you and Mark come to an understanding about salvaging your relationship.

AN: Ahh couldn't help myself. Releasing this one a day early! This is a Gif Check requested by @spnwoman for the 5K Celebration — set shortly after Sister, Sister! 

Song Inspo: Title inspired by the Chicago song.

Word Count: 4.9K

Tags/Warnings: [Set during 1x03] 18+ only! Heavy angst (medical, emotional, the works), but also hurt/comfort, implied smut (m. receiving oral), and actual smut

Series Masterlist

Mark popped two pills and took them dry. Even the motion of swallowing intensified the sharp pulsing in his skull.

Fuck. As bad as it was, he knew it was going to get worse. Not just headaches, the rest of the bullshit the doctor mentioned. Plus, Mark didn’t need his GED to scour WebMD with the best of them. Seizures, motor function, speech—what it all boiled down to was loss of control. The end of who he was.

He sighed, grimacing, shutting his eyes tight for a second.

He had less than an hour before he had to be at work. No time to go through this mental spiral (again).

He went for the edge of the bathroom sink in a familiar grip, and he stared at his reflection in the mirror, wet hair slicked back from the shower. Apart from the creases under his eyes from stress and intentional sleep deprivation, he looked normal. For now.

He heard the bedsprings creak, and one of the reasons for his lack of sleep came into view. You stepped into his bathroom, barefooted, wearing that old favorite college shirt that liked to slip off your shoulder. Except this time, he was willing to bet you had nothing on underneath. His fault.

Your arms wrapped around his waist from behind. A smile began to tug at his lips on reflex. He felt your head resting against his dewy skin. Your hands inched up his chest and playfully teased with your nails. Little sexy scratch. Little kiss between his shoulder blades. 

“Go back to sleep, baby,” he said. A teasing note crept into his voice, “It’s too early for you.”

“You got in late last night.” Again. He’d been pulling late hours all week. Whatever case he was on, you had a feeling it was a big one. He still wouldn’t give you any details though. Not even when he was gone for almost two days, coming back smelling like a farmhouse and covered in grime.

“I want to see you,” you added softly. “Kinda the whole point of me being here.”

Mark grabbed one of your hands and brought it to his lips. He turned around in your arms, just so he could gather you up into his. Your fingers brushed the edge of the towel wrapped around his waist, a smile playing on your lips…until you noticed the open medicine cabinet, and the now familiar label of his prescription. 

You glanced up at him, biting your lip. “Are you hurting?”

He gave a minimal shake of his head.

“I’m good.”

A lie, for your benefit. You were beginning to figure him out again, now with this new layer of uncharted no man’s land between you. You dropped a kiss onto his chest, but it couldn’t stop the lump of emotion rising in your throat, or the tears welling up in your eyes. None of this was fucking fair—to him or to you.

Mark sighed. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“All right. If we’re gonna do this, promise me no more tears, okay?” he teased lightly.

You shook your head, unable to smile.

“Sorry. Can’t promise that.”

Mark hummed. He released his hold on you, just to take your face in his hands. His thumbs gently brushed under your eyes and collected tears from your lashes.

“Well, then we’ve got a problem. ‘Cause the one thing I can’t fucking take, is seeing this,” he said with a sigh. “What’re we doing here, sweetheart?”

You grabbed onto his wrists and kept his hands in place. You even closed your eyes for a moment, reveling in his touch. You hadn’t had this in so long…

“We’re together again. That’s what’s important, right?” you said, eventually meeting his heavy gaze.

“We’ve still got the same problem,” he said. “I don’t want to see you tearing yourself up over something we can’t change.”

You stared up at him, willing yourself not to spark with upset. Wasn’t he the one who said he’d consider looking for a second opinion?

“Well,” you said, unsticking your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “I actually got you an appointment with another oncologist.”

Mark paused, pursing his lips, a subtle exhale. His hands fell back to his sides. “You did, huh?”

“Yeah, I did,” you said pointedly, “because it didn’t seem like you were in a hurry to do it yourself, and if we wait until you’ve wrapped up your case, it could be too late.”

Your voice broke a little on the end there. It took away most of your bravado, but it also cut through Mark’s annoyance. Just hacked it at the root, really.

“It’s my mom’s friend, Indira Rashid. She can see you on Monday,” you said.

He sighed through his nose. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Really? Your brows raised.

That one hurt. It was a gripping blow, shaking down to your foundations as you glared up at him.

“What do you want me to do, Mark? Walk away and not even fight for you, like you did to me?” you said, your tone as sharp as your words were cutting. He almost looked away, but he didn’t. He looked you in the eyes.

“You really want me to live my life and pretend I don’t know what you’re going through—alone?” you said, a little softer. “If this was the other way around, you’d be fucking pissed if I even suggested you leave me.”

Mark faltered.

Well, shit.

You had him there, and you both knew it too.

Another tear found a path down your cheek, but he swept it away. You took in a shaky breath.

“Tell me you don’t love me,” you said. You dared him with your eyes. “Tell me you don’t want me here.”

Mark quirked a smile. You should’ve been a goddamn lawyer, because there really was no winning against you.

He tilted your chin up to meet his kiss, slow and thorough.

“You know that’s never fucking happening,” he said.

Only then were you able to smile.

You rose up on your toes for a deeper kiss, luring his tongue into your mouth with a soft moan. He held you to him tightly, solid and strong. He still kissed you like this was the first and the last—like he was making up for lost time. He supposed he was, and he wouldn’t stop.

Until your hands slipped in between your bodies to start unraveling the towel from his waist. 

“How much time you have before work?” you asked mischievously. You slid down his body, all the way down to your knees on the bathroom mat as you brushed your hair out of your face.

Mark grinned down at you, equally amused and aroused when you laid soft, purposeful kisses down his bare thighs. Your grip ensured that he wasn’t going anywhere, even if he wanted to.

“Uh, well, I’m thinking just long enough.”

Your sweet giggle was the best fucking thing—aside from the rest you could do with your mouth.

Mark whipped his Ford Bronco into the parking space. Thanks to you, he was running a few minutes late. Punctuality wasn’t usually one of the things bent the rules on, but today, he didn’t give a fuck.

He’d seen a car bomb practically go off on his face last night. He’d knelt down over a cartel thug and gripped his shoulders while the guy choked out his last words. Volchek.

Mark had that name ringing in his ears all night, apart from the high-pitched whirring from, you know, being within blast range.

But you’d also sucked him off three ways to Sunday this morning, so today was looking up. He even smiled after getting out of his car. A real smile, not a maintenance mask. Because his phone buzzed in his pocket, and he saw the text from you.

What time you think you’ll be home tonight? I wanna cook for us.

Jesus, what he’d give to see you in his sad fucking kitchen. He’d been living off of Hamburger Helper and canned tuna ever since he got out of lockup.

Btw, you know all you have here is half of an old breakfast burrito and a jar of pickles. Pretty pathetic.

Mark smirked. He texted back:

Guilty. Can I put in a request for the Thursday Special?

Oh my God. Of course you remember that! 😂

How the hell am I gonna forget naked cooking? You still have those heels I got you? The red ones with a little bling on the side? Tall as fuck.

Maaaaybe…

Ooh, and the matching—

“Hey,” said Oliveras, who was getting out of her own car not far from his.

Mark gave her a distracted nod. “Hey.”

She soon rose a brow when she noticed the way he was texting, smiling to himself like a teenage girl. Considering the night they’d had, it was more than a little weird.

“What, got a match on Tinder?” she said, a small smirk curving her lips.

Mark quickly looked up, like he’d been caught. He put his phone away, his casual gait back in place.

“Nah, just some stupid Facebook meme.”

A snort escaped her. “Facebook? All right, granddad.”

He eyed her in amusement, but feeling his pocket buzz again, he took out his phone to keep texting you while he and Oliveras entered the Wilshire Federal Building and waited for the elevator. She watched him discreetly, her brown eyes perceptive.

“You know, you never said what happened after that night at the bar,” she said.

That definitely earned his attention. Whatever he was smiling at faded away when he met her gaze.

“I mean, it’s not really any of my business, but did you at least get her home okay?” she asked.

Mark's smile hinted back in place. “Yeah, I did. She was all right, just needed to sleep it off.”

Again, not much slipped by Oliveras. Her brows dipped, her head tilted in suspicion.

“Waaait, wait. Did you two actually hook up?” she said.

Mark debated on an answer for that one. The elevator finally dinged and opened up for them, giving him another beat to think.

“Well, technically not that night,” he said, inclining his head, “or the next day, but—”

Amber crossed her arms along with her duffel bag, absolutely beside herself. “How…the fuck did you finesse that?”

Mark’s lips twitched upward. He opened his mouth to reply, but she just waved her hand like a white flag.

“Jesus, don’t say anything,” she groused, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. I thought she was fucking smarter than that.”

Mark's amusement faded. “’Scuse me?”

It was a warning, subtle in his eyes.

Oliveras rolled hers. She wasn’t afraid of bruising his apparent fragile ego. Or maybe it wasn’t that. Maybe it was you he was defending.

Oliveras tempered what she wanted to say, even what she was thinking.

“Whatever. Forget I said anything,” she said. She did wonder if she should call you though.

She hadn’t spoken to you in months. You two had grown apart after graduating from college and diving head-first into your respective careers; you weren’t exactly friends anymore. Although Oliveras was of the mind that women should look out for each other, whenever possible, taking back the bastard who cheated on you and left you weeks before the wedding…

Well, if she didn’t know you personally, she’d say it was a weak woman move.

Matter of fact, she would’ve punched him in the trachea. She was kind of fantasizing about it now as she and Mark stepped off the elevator and made brusque steps toward the office.

“Look, it’s complicated,” Mark said, in a lowered voice. His gaze was straight ahead. She knew it was his way of saving face.

But what she didn’t know was that it was mostly a stoic front, weighed by thoughts of guilt, desire, regret, and deeper shit too—more complicated than she gave him credit for.

“She’s a good woman," he said, "better than I fucking deserve.”

Something about that look on his face, the tone of his voice…it made Oliveras pause. She quirked a smile.

“On that, we actually agree.”

Was it normal for your heart to be close to shattering one moment, then damn near light and giddy the next? You didn’t think it was good for you. It was giving you whiplash, and possibly acid reflux.

But after you sent one last text to Mark, you ignored the flip-flop fluttery feeling of going too fast down a rollercoaster, and you smiled. More than giving him a “Thursday Special,” you were just looking forward to having a nice dinner together, not unlike the one you two shared with your mom on Tuesday. Not unlike countless other nights you and Mark used to have.

Again, your smile was short-lived. You stopped your car short at a red light, laying on the breaks harder than you should have. It earned you a blaring honk from the car behind you, but you didn’t even acknowledge it.

How could you have a honeymoon phase with what lied over the horizon? Every time you thought of making plans, it just reminded you that nothing could ever be set in stone. Nothing was in your control, and you fucking hated that.

When you eventually got to work, you ran through the motions of doing your job, making sure District Attorney Valwell made it to his appointments, making your calls and follow-up emails, filing the document, writing briefs, even grabbing Valwell’s lunch order (and yours). You ate at your desk and did one of the things you did best—research.

You didn’t trust WebMD. You went right to medical journals and clinical research, like you’d been doing for the past few days. You even called Indira again. You felt bad for taking away her own lunch hour with your questions, but you had to know. 

What she told you about cases like Mark’s only made your heart bleed and your stomach rebel. After you got off the phone, you found yourself throwing up your $20 enchiladas in the restroom down the hall.

That was around the time you got an all too cheerful-sounding text. After rinsing your mouth out in the bathroom sink, you groaned and wiped your face with a rough paper towel. You grabbed your phone out of your pocket and checked the notification: from Mark.

Hey, baby. Sorry, need to raincheck dinner tonight. I’ll be home late.

You frowned in disappointment. If he was postponing the Thursday Special, then he really was busy. Your shoulders sunk, but you replied.

How late do you think?

…No response.

A heavy sigh fell from your lips. This was actually familiar territory. When Mark was at work, he was easily distracted and a terrible texter. Which, fair enough, considering he was usually running down leads and hopping fences and whatever other reckless shit he was bound to do.

Some things don’t change, you thought ruefully.

But it didn’t mean you couldn’t try to change them. 

7:00 AM.

The next morning. You were almost dressed for work, still checking your phone, still out of your damn mind with worry because Mark never came home. He never checked in after around 2:30 PM yesterday, no matter how many texts you sent him.

You called his precinct, and Captain Victor Morales only told you that Mark was out on assignment. He wouldn’t tell you what that meant, or when Mark would be back. All you could do was wait.

Around twenty minutes later, it was about the time you absolutely needed to leave for work, or else you’d get caught in traffic again. But that was also when the front door lock twisted. The door itself creaked open, and there was Mark, looking exhausted and rough. He wore a strange gray jumpsuit, but your eyes were drawn to the bloodstains on the cuffs of his sleeves.

You tried to swallow your tears when you went to him, but relief hit you square in the chest. Mark took the impact of you in his arms with a soft grunt, but he held you on instinct. You wrapped your arms around his neck and shut your eyes against a salty sting.

“Where the hell were you?” You fingered the rough material of his collar. “What are you wearing? You smell like fucking gunpowder, and antiseptic—”

“Just,” Mark interrupted, squeezing your waist. “Just…give me a second.”

“What happened?” you asked, couldn’t help yourself.

Mark shook his head. Heavy sigh. He couldn’t tell you, he realized.

Just seeing your face was a relief, even creased with worry and tears. He felt guilty for that, and a fuck ton of other things, but he couldn’t tell you.

He couldn’t tell you that he lost a member of his team, or that he felt like he was the one responsible with his half-cocked scheme going shit sideways. He couldn’t tell you that his hands had been literally coated in Drew’s blood, or that Mark watched the man's eyes roll up and disappear behind his lids as blood continued to pour out of his chest.

Drew didn’t get to go home to his wife, but somehow, Mark was the son of a bitch who was allowed to come home and find you waiting for him.

“Sorry. Long night…can’t really get into it,” he rasped. You smelled good, like your face lotion and a hint of perfume. He was a mess, probably getting three flavors of grime on your nice silky blouse and black skirt.

You relented, nodding shakily and sweeping your hand over his greasy hair in a caress.

“You should get cleaned up,” you said.

After a beat, Mark nodded. Every muscle in his body protested, but he pulled away from you. It was hard to meet your gaze as he aimed for his bedroom. He disappeared into the adjoining bathroom and scrubbed himself in a shower so hot, he probably burned off a couple layers of skin. He still didn’t feel entirely clean when he walked out.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

While getting dressed in some old sweatpants, he caught sight of the time by the digital clock on his nightstand. He checked his phone too. Nothing from Blythe or the team. They would get eight hours of recovery before they were expected back, reporting for fucking duty.

Mark rubbed the aching space between his brows as he stepped out of the bedroom. He stopped short when he found you in his kitchen, scrambling up some eggs. You’d already kicked your shoes off, leaving you in just that flowy blouse and a tempting skirt, perfectly shaped around your ass and thighs.

It also looked like you went to the grocery store yesterday. He saw the evidence of it in the jumbo carton of eggs lying on the counter, the little cannisters of salt and pepper (the ones you had to hand-grind yourself, which only you would buy), and the slices of ham and deli cheese you were ripping up to add into the steaming pan. The smell wafted nostalgia up his nose and into his brain.

On any other day, he would’ve smiled.

On any other day, he would’ve sidled up behind you, dragging his hands, heavy with intention over your hips, playfully and possessively up your sides. Your body would respond before your head could catch up, arching up against his chest like a cat. He’d whisper only half of the filthiest ideas he had in your ear, just to see if he could break your concentration. Most of the time, he won.

Today, he paused in the doorway and watched you. In his mind, he still saw the barrel of a gun aimed between his eyes, thinking that narrow darkness was probably the last thing he was ever going to see.

Instead, he got to see you. That was the bleeding duality: a relief that clawed through his chest, and a guilt that sunk those claws deeper.  

You glanced over your shoulder and aimed an attempt at a smile his way.

“This is almost done,” you said. The wooden spoon moved deftly in your hand.

“You’re gonna be late for work,” he said.

“I called out sick.”

He blew out a sigh, a shake of his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

You turned off the stove, shifted the pan of eggs off to the side before your frown turned his way. Really? said your eyes.

Mark couldn’t hold your gaze for long. He escaped the inviting aroma in the kitchen and got as far as the living room. You followed him to the couch and took a seat right on the edge of it, beside him.

“I know you can’t tell me what happened, but I know this isn’t a routine case,” you said. You were almost hesitant when you reached out to caress his cheek, earning his carefully guarded gaze.

Whatever it was, he was trying hard to keep you out of it, which only gave you a deeper pit in your stomach. You were afraid for him in so many ways, but you knew there was probably nothing you could say to pull him out of what he was doing. It was his job, and if Mark took one thing seriously, regardless of the means, it was his fucking job. You knew it all too well.

You found the courage to ask him a question, even though the answer had the potential to cut into you again.

“What do you want, Mark? You want me to stay, or do you want to handle this by yourself?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

You shook your head. “That’s not what I asked.”

Mark’s lips twitched slightly. “It’s not about what I want.”

Your hand slid down to his chest, feeling the steady thrum underneath.

“Then what about what you need?” you asked. Like it was that simple.

What am I gonna do with you? Mark thought, smiling ruefully. After how thoroughly you’d hated him last week, it was like dousing ice-cold water over his head when you said shit like that. But his heart remembered, pulsing painfully, the way it all was before. He could have it again, at least for a little while.

He should’ve told you to go to work—that he’d be fine, just needed to sleep the night off.

He should’ve just let you go altogether.

Maybe he really was just a selfish asshole at his core.

He slid a hand behind your neck, through your hair, and guided you to him for a rougher kiss than he meant it to be. He swallowed the hint of your surprise and was satisfied when your body responded to him before your brain could catch up; your eyes fell shut, and the tension melted from your frame as you sunk against him.

You grabbed for his shoulders and straddled his hips when he hefted you into his arms. Mark slid his hands up your skirt until it bunched all the way up your waist, taking the opportunity to squeeze the plush of your ass. There was no part of you he didn't crave getting his hands full of.

You were of a similar mind as you tugged his gray henley up from the hem, soft hands burning up his stomach, chest, and shoulders. The solidity of his frame; you knew that when he held you, he had you.

Teeth clicked and tongues warred, tasted, devoured. His lips dragged down to the spot where your neck met your shoulder, teeth grazing, biting, his hands claiming your hip and tangling in your hair. Breaths panted hot in the small spaces in between moments.

You managed to slip a hand down into his sweatpants and palm over the growing bulge, smiling when he groaned into your mouth. You reached behind the band to find his cock, already hot and heavy and hard for you.

His resulting hiss was sharp behind his teeth, his grip on your bare thigh just shy of bruising as he throbbed in your hand. His voice devolved into a deeper, more guttural groan as his head tipped back against the sofa. You worked him over with a sensuous hand, using beads of his precum to stroke your thumb over the sensitive head.

You had half a mind to slide down between his legs like you did yesterday morning, but he had you gripped tight in his arms, like he didn’t want you going anywhere.

And he didn’t. He wanted your thighs spread for him, just like they were now. He slid your panties down as far as they’d go, and he ripped the black lace on either side, earning a small gasp from you.

“I liked those,” you said, nipping his lower lip in retaliation. Mark smirked against your pouting mouth.

“I liked ‘em too. But now they’re in my goddamn way,” he said, that trademark cockiness in his grin that made you want to slap him and kiss it off his lips at the same time.

He tugged the ruined fabric slowly, with purpose, letting it slide between your wet folds and brushing your clit. You clung to him with a quiet moan, especially when his long fingers found a familiar path into your slippery channel. The knuckle of his thumb pressed against your clit as well, making you whimper. A heady zing of pleasure sparked in your lower belly, reaching the very depths of you. It just wasn’t enough.

“Need you,” you whispered into his mouth. Your fingers ran through his hair, lovingly first, then scraping your nails along his scalp.

He groaned, nodding in agreement. His fingers withdrew from your core and spread some slick up to your clit. He drew circles with a firm, tantalizing pressure, enough to have your voice shuddering his name and your hips bucking into his hand. "Oh, fuck, please..."

"Good angle, right?" he teased. Smug bastard.

"Mhmm," you nodded, smiling into his lips. But all you could really do was cling to his neck while his fingers wreaked havoc on your pussy. Just when you began to taste that delicious edge, the crest of a tidal wave—he stopped.

He fucking stopped, withdrawing his fingers and moving his hands back to your waist. Your uneven breaths also accounted for your shock, and then your annoyance. But before you could even start to call him an asshole, he grabbed you up strong by your hips, just so he could all but impale you on his cock.

Choked of whatever words that might've slipped off your tongue, you gasped and cursed in the same breath. The inner walls of your pussy quivered around his length and thickness as he worked himself deeper inside. There was just so much of him, you sucked in deeper breaths just taking him, inch by inch.

But you led the rhythm, a rolling sway that built its momentum as you rode him. Mark tore through those last clinging buttons of your blouse and freed your breasts, snapping the bra open too. Straps and silky fabric got tossed to who gives a fuck where. All that mattered was his hands cradling you possessively, his beard rasping against your skin as his teeth dragged over the sensitive buds of your nipples.

There wasn’t any part of you he didn’t know, no square inch of supple flesh he hadn’t mapped out, devastated, and claimed. But it didn’t stop him from relishing the taste. Every sound out of your mouth was black velvet in his ears, adding to his satisfaction when your body practically hummed underneath his touch.

The bob of your hips faltered, distracted, your limbs trembling and your thighs burning.

“You close already, baby?” Mark rasped, deep and ragged in your ear. He was just as wrecked as you. The feeling of you, so goddamn tight and warm and wet—fucking perfect. Making him almost lose his goddamn sense of reality. He thrust up inside you, hard enough to knock a gasp out of you, feel you clench on him in response. Your nails raked down the back of his neck.

“You are, I can fuckin’ feel it,” he gritted out. Like his sixth fucking sense.

“Yeah,” you confessed, breathless and desperate. “Little more. Need your help, please—”

“I’ve got’cha,” he said. His hands tightened on your hips and gave you both what you needed, a few hammering strokes that hit just the right spot—that sensitive place inside that made your inner walls quiver and throb. A rush of heat and white spots on the edge of your vision, you buried your face into his neck and screamed your release.

Mark felt your inner walls pulse and tighten impossibly around his cock. He drove into you through the height of your orgasm, as long as he could hold out, until his body locked up on him too. He held himself inside you, nestled deep as he could until he was spent. You shuddered at the feeling of his warmth coating your inner walls. It soon began to leak out between your thighs.

Mark rolled his shoulders with a short wince at the sting your nails had left against his back. He didn’t mind though. He just smiled and rubbed a gentler hand up and down your spine, quelling the little goosebumps.

When you could even breathe, you slipped your fingers into his hair and drew him into a softer kiss.

It was a necessary grounding, a moment of peace after the storm.

He sighed, closed his eyes, and let his forehead rest against yours. He felt the tickle of your hair against his cheek, the rise and fall of your breaths evening out in a quiet room, blending with the low hum of the AC.

He could hear the faint sounds of cars passing by outside, another morning at full swing. He only had a few hours left to rest, but even these minutes were important. They were yours, and his.

“Thanks,” he said. “For, uh…staying.”

You blinked your eyes open and pulled back a little, prompting him to do the same. This part was important, and you wanted him to know that.

“I’m not leaving unless you tell me to,” you said.

Mark’s lips tugged at a tired smile. “Then buckle up, sweetheart.”

Once again, your soft giggles filled the room.

AN: The angst! You could bottle it. 😫💙 How do you like how they figured out this hurdle together?

...And are you ready for another one? lol

The next one-shot for this series is a fun little flashback to their first date! But what's also coming up in the future is very much inspired by “You’re Losing Me (From the Vault)” by Taylor Swift. Thanks again, @waynes-multiverse for that perfect - hella angsty - inspo! 😂

(Hint: The reader might finally find out what Mark's "special assignment" has been for the past couple of weeks.)

Until then, please let me know what you thought of this little angsty/smutty adventure! lol Your feedback fuels my creative spark! 🥰💜

⋆˙⟡ Get notified when every new story drops! Add yourself to my Tag Lists ⟡ Follow my fic library blog - @zepskieswrites - with notifications on.

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Mark Meachum Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Mark Meachum Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @winchestergirl2 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373

WM @hobby27 @kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @mostlymarvelgirl

@midnightmadwoman @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@rizlowwritessortof @jackles010378 @nancymcl @spnaquakindgdom @bettystonewell

@this-is-me19 SW @illicithallways @pieandmonsters @deansbbyx

@stoneyggirl2 @cheynovak @jollyhunter @deanwinchestersgirl87 @rachiem4-blog

@leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989 @siampie @masked-lost-girl

@spnbabe67 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused @supernotnatural2005 @globetrotter28

@cookiechipdough @winchesterwild78 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat

@mrsjenniferwinchester @fromcaintodean @kiddieclaws @gabavaldman

[archivesctrccio]

WE HEAR THE WILDERNESS AND IT HEARS US.

𝑰𝑽 — 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑶𝑶𝑵.

warnings.. The story has two points of view: in the wilderness, and after the rescue on a 2-year time skip. the story after the time skip is told as if it were an investigation report. heavy themes, cannibalism, ooc, cult, major character death, mention of drugs, mention of sex, angst, mentions of s.a.

masterlist..

words.. 3.9k

jinx's notes.. um hello... i might have gotten a bit carried away.. im sorry... hope you guys like it! if you have anyy questions, feel free to dm me/send me and ask! <3 (you'll notice that there's nothing in italics because tumblr screwed me over and deleted my process :( my apologies!

TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERVIEW WITH SHAUNA SHIPMAN — CONDUCTED BY MISTY QUIGLEY

01/2000

Misty: And what about her relationship with Jackie? Do you remember what it was like?

Shauna: (silent for a few seconds) I think Jackie really liked ▇▇▇▇. She was... the opposite of her. Jackie was all sunlight—bright, warm, loud. ▇▇▇▇ felt like shadow. Not in a bad way—just... quiet. Like she knew something the rest of us didn’t.

Misty: You didn’t understand why Jackie was so drawn to her, right?

Shauna: I guess... I didn’t get it. Didn’t get her. But Jackie did. She always did.

1996 (before the doomcoming)

You sat on the porch, watching the others work. Your hands rested on your knees, unmoving. You didn’t belong to the rhythm of the cabin—the cutting, hauling, shouting. You were apart, and not only by choice. You simply were.

Jackie sat beside you, her movements slower than usual, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever quiet lived around you. She glanced sideways, studying your profile with a look bordering on curiosity and caution.

— Why aren’t you helping them? — she asked softly, barely above a whisper. Her voice was meant only for you.

You noticed Shauna’s eyes flick to you as she carved into the deer Travis and Natalie had brought in. You met Jackie’s gaze instead.

— I... I don’t know how to help, — you admitted. — I’m not like them. Not built for survival, or whatever this is. I don’t have that... wild instinct. They move with it. I just... feel.

Jackie tilted her head, narrowing her eyes slightly. All this time, she assumed you were always on edge. But up close, your body wasn’t tense. You were just still. You weren’t resisting this place, you were surrendering to it in a way she hadn’t noticed before. You seemed to hold some deeper knowing, some unshaken quiet.

— Do you also feel like something bad is coming? — you asked, your voice distant, like you were listening to something none of them could hear.

— No... I don’t. — she answered, caught off guard. — Why?

You didn’t turn to her. Your eyes stayed on the trees, or perhaps beyond them.

— I just do. The cards have been strange lately. They’re warning me. Every spread has shadows in it¹... like something’s waiting just beyond the tree line.

Jackie almost laughed—but didn’t. Something in your voice stopped her. She remembered how you’d once leaned across the table at a school party and whispered “we’re going to win this game” before anything had even started. And then you did. You always did. 

— You always say that. That you feel things coming. — Her voice held no judgment. Just quiet fascination. — Most of the time, you’re right.

You glanced at her, surprised by the observation. You hadn’t expected Jackie Taylor to notice you at all, much less remember the things you said.

You let out a breath, almost a sigh, and shrugged.

— It’s just... something inside me. Or sometimes the cards say something that matches what I already know. I don’t know what to call it… faith, instinct, a gift, maybe.

Jackie smiled softly, brushing a bit of hair behind her ear.

— I admire that. Your faith, I mean. — She gave a small laugh. — Shauna tried to become Catholic once, it lasted like... a week. She said the saints were too tragic.

You laughed quietly with her, though the word “tragic” sat differently in your mind. It made you think of Laura Lee. Of the smoke. The sky. The silence afterward.

— I agree with her, — you said, almost to yourself.

Jackie didn’t say anything more, but she didn’t leave your side either. She stayed there beside you, quietly, like she was trying to figure out what made you glow without light.

1996. (After Doomcoming, before Jackie & Shauna’s fight.)

You stood beside Jackie in silence, both of you watching the others through the cabin’s open doorway. The scene outside didn’t look real. The way they acted—talking, continuing on as if nothing had happened—felt like some cruel trick of the woods. A performance you hadn't been invited to understand.

Jackie crossed her arms, eyes narrowed.

— I can't believe they did that. Like, what the fuck was that? — she mutters, low but clear, meant only for you. — They didn't even seem human.

You glanced at her, sensing the fury in her voice had less to do with the others and more to do with something unraveling quietly beneath the surface. Something raw.

— What happened, Jackie? You look... different. Quieter. More... — You hesitated, searching for the right word, for something gentle but true. — I don't have a better adjective to say this. You seem more bitchy.

She actually laughs—a small, bitter sound—and turns toward you for the first time in what felt like days.

— Do you know who’s the father of Shauna's little bundle of joy? It's Jeff. Jeff, my fucking boyfriend. — Her voice cracks, and you see the shine in her eyes. That familiar glint, right before someone breaks.

And for the first time, Jackie Taylor, who always wore her perfection like armor, crumbled.

You widened your eyes and, without thinking, wrapped your arm around her shoulder, letting her collapse into you.

— Oh, Jackie. I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve this.

She sobs quietly against your neck. And you hold her—not just because she needed it, but because some part of you, deeper than you could explain, knew that moments like this had meaning. And weight.

  TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERVIEW WITH SHAUNA SHIPMAN — CONDUCTED BY MISTY QUIGLEY

01/2000

Misty: I bet Jackie thought ▇▇▇▇ was going after her when she left the cabin. (chuckles.)

Shauna: That's not funny, Misty.

Misty: I mean, can you imagine her face? (laughing completely now)

Notes: Okay. Maybe I was a bit of a jerk. But can you blame me? Shauna kind of deserved it.

1996.

— Jackie didn’t say it. — Misty’s voice cuts through the tense silence like a blade.

The air in the cabin freezes. Everyone’s gaze falls on Jackie.

— No, I did not thank the dirt for bringing us a brain-dead bear. — Her voice is like venom now, sharp and burning. You’ve never heard her speak like that, never seen her so visibly fractured. — Was it even happening right now? The fuck is wrong with you all?

— It’s fine, guys, she doesn’t have to—

— Oh, shut up Tai. Don’t pretend like you weren’t a part of it. What? we’re… we’re just not gonna talk about it? We’ll just howl at the moon now and have fucking orgies? And somehow I’m the one who did something wrong.

You sat still, silent as a statue, watching the tension coil and strike. You didn’t interfere—no one really could—but something flickered in your chest. A silent, aching agreement. You hoped Jackie could feel it.

  TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERVIEW WITH SHAUNA SHIPMAN — CONDUCTED BY MISTY QUIGLEY

01/2000

Misty: But she's also a hypocrite. Do you remember how she looked after Javi? Pathetic. She kind of freaked out because of Jackie but then... accepted it all as if it were fate.

(Shauna doesn't answer. But her eyes focus on me as if I'm the wrong one.)

1996.

— Maybe you’ll be better off. Since we’re all so crazy. — Mari’s voice is a twisted sort of amusement. You stare at her in disbelief. They were pushing Jackie out, inch by inch. Making her the enemy. Still, your feet won’t move. Your throat won’t work. Every word you want to say to defend her lodges somewhere deep inside you. But Jackie’s eyes find yours. And in them, a question. A plea.

— ‘Kay, everybody just stop. Nobody is going outside. — Coach Ben tries to reassert control, his voice tight with panic.

— Stay out of it, Coach. — Lottie’s tone is dismissive, unwavering.

— You know what? Fine. — Jackie storms to the corner, her movements sudden and final. She grabs what little she has and heads for the door.

— Jackie, come on, don’t go out—

— Don’t pretend like this isn’t what you wanted the entire fucking time.

Her gaze pins Shauna, but her words feel like they’re meant for all of you.

— I don’t even know who you are anymore.

— Or maybe you never did. — It's Shauna who responds, and in your view, her response was cruel.

The door slams. Silence floods the room, thick and unnatural.

You can’t take it. Can’t breathe in that cabin anymore. You get up without a word and head for the attic, footsteps echoing against the wood. You can feel every pair of eyes on you. But for once, it doesn’t matter.

You settle near the window, watching her. Jackie fumbles with branches and a lighter, trying to start a fire that won’t catch. You want to help. God, you want to. But something in you is rooted in place, magnetized to the warmth of the cabin, to the pull of the unknown.

You take the tarot deck from your pocket, the worn edges soft under your fingers. You should’ve drawn a card sooner. Should’ve listened to that tug in your chest.

You shuffle in silence, breath shallow, and draw one.

The Moon. Illusion. Insecurity. Intuition.

You close your eyes. There’s something you’re not seeing. A veil you haven’t lifted.

The card whispers to you, not in words, but in instinct: Step back. Look inward.

But what does that mean, when someone is out there, alone?

You barely sleep that night. You don’t move beneath the blankets. You don’t speak.

You just listen. To the trees. To the wind. To the quiet.

And to the knowing that something—something sacred, or horrifying, or both—is coming. 

What you didn’t expect was to wake up to the sound of footsteps thudding across the cabin floor—Shauna, bolting toward the door, wild-eyed. And then you noticed the snow.

Thick flakes falling in eerie silence.

Your stomach dropped.

You were already moving before you knew it, following the others as they rushed outside into the white-covered clearing. Panic clawed its way into your chest, unspoken but sharp. Jackie hadn’t come back. Not during the night. Not at all.

And then… there she was.

Lying in the snow like a statue carved from porcelain. Peaceful, almost—like she had just decided to rest a moment and would stir at any second. But she wouldn’t. Her skin was dusted in frost, her lips tinged blue, and her eyelashes rimmed in ice.

Shauna collapsed to her knees in front of her, sobbing, her hands trembling as she tried to brush the snow from Jackie’s face. Her cries were raw and guttural, a sound that broke something open inside you.

You and Taissa moved without speaking, kneeling beside her, arms wrapping around Shauna as she fell apart. Your own grief threatened to rise up and spill over—but you bit it back, for now, trying to stay steady for her.

Your gaze drifted up, to the forest surrounding you. Endless trees. Endless silence. The sky above seemed too still, too cruel. You searched for some sign. Some answer.

But there was none. Only snow. Only quiet.

Only Jackie, and the way she still looked like she might wake up.

And you, trying not to feel like this was your fault, even as something inside you whispered that you should’ve done more. That The Moon had warned you.

1997. 

It's been a few months since Jackie died, and winter has sunk its claws into everything.

You think it’s February. Maybe early March. Time has grown soft around the edges—blurred by cold, hunger, silence. The sun barely rises before it’s gone again, and some days you’re not even sure it rose at all.

The dynamics in the group have shifted. Like snow reshaping the forest floor, quietly but completely. Fear pushed you into participation—you started helping with sewing, sometimes cooking, though meals were scarce. You kept moving, out of instinct, not desire.

But when you weren’t needed, you returned to your place by the window, the porch, the fire—shuffling the tarot deck slowly in your hands. You never drew. Not often. The motions were enough. 

Since the snow came, you’d grown quieter too. Most days, you didn’t speak at all. A few words a week, at best. You listened instead. You watched.

You saw how Jackie’s absence had reshaped the center of gravity. How Shauna would vanish into the meat shed for hours at a time, haunted and hollow-eyed. How Lottie’s voice started to carry more weight—too much weight, like it came from somewhere deeper than her own chest. And how the others began to listen.

Sometimes, when the fire cracked just right or the wind moved through the trees like it was whispering names, you wondered if the forest was speaking only to you. Or through you. There were moments the line between real and not-real blurred, and you weren’t sure if it was hunger… or something older. Something watching.

And Jackie. You thought of her often. You wondered if she would’ve survived this cold, or if she would’ve fought it like everything else. Part of you thinks she would’ve hated it—the silence, the stillness. But another part of you wonders if she would’ve changed too, like everyone else.

You were sitting on the porch, the tarot cards shuffling between your fingers like a ritualized heartbeat, when the tension snapped.

Taissa yanked Shauna aside so abruptly it startled you, and before you could even register what was happening, Lottie shoved Tai back with a protective force. The moment cracked like ice splitting underfoot.

You tucked the cards quickly into your pocket and rose, your body moving before your mind could catch up.

— Did you know about this? You’ve been encouraging her! — Taissa's voice rang as sharp as the wind through pine. Van was at her side instantly, trying to ground her.

— I Fucking told you it wasn’t okay; I knew it wasn’t alright!

The other girls began to gather, pulled to the scene like crows to a clearing.

— Go on Shauna. Tell them. Tell them what you’ve been up to with Jackie. — Her voice pointed toward the meat house, where none of you had dared linger too long. You’d know Shauna went there. You just didn't know why.

— Just… talking. — Shauna said, her voice too quiet. You could feel the lie before you even heard it.

— Talking? Shauna’s been braiding Jackie’s hair, she’s been doing her fucking makeup. — Taissa’s disbelief gave way to horror.

— Holy Christ… — Coach Ben muttered under his breath.

— And you’ve been posing her, right? Adjusting her limbs like some fucked-up doll. Is that normal, Lottie? Is that healthy?

— It’s okay… — Lottie tried to soothe her.

— It’s not fucking okay.

— She was her best friend, Tai. — The silence that followed was heavier than snow.

— Shauna, this has to stop. For your own good. And for the good of the baby.

— Like you, or any of you, knows what’s good for the baby.

Shauna stepped closer to Taissa then, her eyes lit with something you didn’t recognize. There was something in her now—something hard and hollow. You thought of the Moon card again. Of illusion, shadow, and hidden truths.

— Well it sure as hell isn't this. — Your voice was barely more than a breath, but it cut through the air like a blade. Shauna turned to you with a look that could freeze blood. You said nothing more. You didn’t need to.

— We are getting rid of Jackie’s body. — Taissa said it like a sentence. A final one.

— No…

— Yes.

The decision was made.

You lingered a moment longer. Then stepped toward Shauna.

— Shauna, I’m sorry… — You said, but the words felt strange in your mouth. Empty. You weren’t even sure what you were apologizing for.

She didn’t look at you. She just walked away. You sighed, your fingers brushing over the tarot in your pocket.

The spirits of the forest were quiet now. But not gone.

You had a feeling they’d be speaking again soon.

You then prepare the place to cremate Jackie's body and you help Taissa put it in place. Shauna avoids eye contact with everyone. 

First, Taissa was supposed to light the torch to start the cremation, but while Lotie and Natalie were fighting, Shauna lights the torch and goes towards Jackie's body. She says her final goodbyes to Jackie and begins the cremation. Even after everyone leaves, you, Lottie, and Taisss stay with Shauna in front of Jackie for a few more minutes, and then head back to the cabin. 

  That night, the forest wakes you.

The air is heavy, trembling with heat and scent. A rich, thick aroma seeps into the cabin—earthy, almost sweet, and utterly consuming. You’ve never felt hunger like this before. Not even during the worst days. This isn’t just emptiness—it’s a summoning. A hunger that feels holy.

Your stomach clenches, and you hear the others stirring, groaning softly like they’ve all been possessed by the same force. Drawn outside.

You follow the scent through the snow, your feet numb to the cold, as if the ground itself were no longer a part of you. And there she is.

Jackie.

Lying in the dying fire, her skin kissed not by frost—but flame. Not burned. Cooked. Her body arranged with quiet reverence, almost ceremony, her limbs placed like offerings. The fire has gone out. But something lingers in the air—something warm, and ancient, and watching.

You approach in silence, like worshipers to an altar. The air crackles with energy—not dread, not fear. Something deeper. Heavier.

Shauna is the first to kneel. Her voice is quiet. Soft as prayer.

— She wants us to. — She says.

And somehow, you know. Not just what she means—but that she’s right.

There’s no resistance in your limbs. Only a quiet understanding, like this moment had been written long before the crash. Long before any of you were born.

Shauna reaches forward first, and the rest of you follow. One by one, you take your place around her. Around Jackie. The circle tightens, like a sacred geometry. A final supper beneath the watchful eye of the stars and branches.

No one speaks. There’s only breath. Crackling bones. Soft chewing. The fire’s fading glow still paints your faces gold and red, and shadows sway behind you, shaped like antlers. Like crowns.

And still, no one weeps.

There is no horror. Only ritual.

You chew slowly. Reverently. You don’t feel like yourself. You don’t feel like anyone. It’s as though your soul stepped aside to let something else move through your body.

You’re not eating Jackie.

You’re receiving her.

The forest has given her back to you, not as a corpse, but as a gift. Not as punishment, but as grace. Jackie, who once stood at the center, now becomes the thread that binds you together. She becomes part of you. Of all of you.

You look around at the others, their faces strangely calm, glowing with firelight and hunger and something else—something older than civilization. Older than names. You feel like you’ve been here before. In another life. Or maybe in a dream passed down through blood.

.You feel it again then—that presence.

The forest.

Not just around you, but with you. In you. As though the trees are watching through your eyes, breathing through your lungs, savoring every bite. It does not speak in words, but in feeling. Sacrifice. Communion. Belonging.

And at this moment, Jackie is no longer gone.

She is part of the forest now.

When you wake, it feels like you're surfacing from a dream too deep to have belonged to you.

Your body is heavy. Your mouth is dry and sour. The nausea creeps in slowly, like smoke under a door, until it overtakes you entirely. You haven’t had a drop of alcohol in your whole life, but it feels like the worst hangover of your life—except what’s curling in your gut isn’t just sickness.It’s remembrance.

And then it hits you.

The fire. The scent. The warmth of flesh.

Jackie.

You sit up, breath catching in your throat, and for a moment, you’re convinced it couldn’t have happened. That it didn’t happen.

You stumble outside the cabin into the morning frost, drawn by a horrible certainty you hope isn’t true.

Natalie is already sitting on the porch, still as stone, staring straight ahead.You follow her gaze—and freeze.

What's left of Jackie is sprawled across the snow, incomplete. Flesh gone. Bones gnawed. Even those aren’t whole. Someone went so far they went bones and all that.. Someone. Maybe you.

You don't speak. You just lower yourself beside Natalie slowly, knees stiff, hands shaking, your breath catching in your chest.

It doesn't feel like yesterday was you.It feels like it happened to someone else wearing your skin—someone ancient, feral, hollowed out by hunger and filled with something else. Something older.

You were a stranger to yourself last night.

And then Taissa emerges.

— What the fuck… — she mutters, and her voice slices through the brittle morning.

— What the fuck is this…

She stumbles toward Jackie’s remains, wild-eyed, and you and Natalie reach for her without a word, steadying her, holdig her back.

— What the fuck… What the fuck—What the fuck happened to Jackie? — she gasps, on the edge of something too sharp to hold.

Her voice rises in pitch, in desperation. You feel the panic radiating off her in waves, like the heat from the fire that should have burned Jackie away but didn't.

Van rushes out and joins you in calming her. But when Taissa's eyes fully register what lies in the snow—what all of you did—she doubles over and vomits. And something inside you breaks.

That sound—the wrench of her stomach—is what finally undoes you.

Tears begin to slip down your cheeks. Silent. Endless.

You ate Jackie.

You consumed her like she was nothing more than food, like she wasn’t your friend. Like she hadn’t once stood beside you in the dark, shivering from cold but never from fear.

You remember the warmth of the fire on your face. The quiet, sacred hush of the night. The way it had all felt right.

But it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be.

Even now, you can feel the forest humming beneath your skin, whispering in a tongue you almost understand. It was a gift, it says. A blessing. You were chosen to survive.

But you don’t want it. Not like that.

You stand, barely breathing, and walk away from the others—into the trees, into the silence. Somewhere less haunted. Somewhere untouched, for a moment, by what you’ve become.

There, you collapse to your knees.

The sobs come hard, sharp, like they’re being pulled out of you by invisible hands. You press your palms to the snow, crying so hard you can barely breathe, wiping at your face again and again until your nose bleeds and your skin is raw.

You throw up.

And you keep throwing up.

Until there’s nothing left inside you but ache.

When did this happen? When did you stop being someone with a conscience, with boundaries, with lines you swore you'd never cross? The forest doesn't answer. But you feel it watching. Listening. Patient.

When you finally return to the cabin, your eyes are swollen nearly shut, your face streaked with red and salt and snow. You look like something that’s been dragged out of the underworld.

Natalie isn't on the porch anymore.

Someone—maybe Mari, maybe Akilah—tells you that Natalie took what was left of Jackie to the plane.

You nod numbly. You don’t ask why.

You just climb to the attic, slow and silent, needing to be high up, far away, closer to the sky. You sit in the darkness alone, and you press your tarot deck to your chest, desperate for clarity, for cleansing, for anything.

But the cards don’t feel like yours anymore.

Nothing does.

references: 78 degrees of wisdom, Rachel Pollak. (slightly altered)

taglist: @moesthoughts, @javizheart, @antlertruths, @citizendetective69, @starryobserverconflux, @taurtel, @bxuzi

[crazytogether4ever]

I think Mike fell in love with Will first

Like, look — we all know they’re deeply in love with each other. That’s obvious by now (they can’t really hide it fr😖). And yeah, people say “Will fell first,” or “Will fell first but Mike fell harder,” or some variation of that.

And sure, I agree, that could totally be true, ofc.

But personally? I think Mike fell first. And they both fell hard — like, there's no “who fell harder,” they're both knee-deep in this mess.

Here’s why:

-In Season 1, we don’t get much of Will on screen, so there aren’t many direct hints about his feelings (except the fact that, he’s queer-coded). But Mike? Mike was all over the place emotionally. The way he reacted when Will went missing — it was different than how Lucas or Dustin did, even though all three are his best friends.

Mike’s already queer-coded from the start, and the show makes it pretty intentional. Lines like “See, Michael? See what happens?” or “I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide anything from me,” or “This thing with Will... it must’ve been hard for you” — those weren’t throwaway lines. They pointed to something deeper going on inside him.

-In Season 2 — the ultimate Byler season — the romantic tension starts to get a lot more obvious. “Crazy together.” Mike sleeping in that uncomfortable hospital chair just to stay next to Will and generally, he didn't left his side for a second. Mike trying to hold him, even if he is to weak for that. The “It was the best thing I ever did” moment. It's overflowing with tenderness. This is probably the season where Will starts to fall for Mike — or at least begins to realize what he’s actually feeling (I think it was "crazy together" moment tbh)

-Then comes Season 3. The iconic rain fight — framed exactly like a breakup. Mike literally yelling, “It’s not my fault you don’t like girls!” (yeah Mike, it’s kinda your fault ngl🙄)

And then all those little moments: the way they glance at each other’s lips and blushing, Mike checking Will out at the hospital (yes, we all saw that, Michael😑). In this season, Mike’s trying to focus on El. He’s projecting everything onto her, because it’s easier. Because it’s “right.”

-And then we get Season 4 — probably the second most Byler-heavy season so far. We’ve got the van scene. The ily monologue ( it is a Byler moment — when a character talks to one person but the camera focuses on another, it often means the message is really meant for that person: Will)

There are three heart-to-heart scenes (thank you, Jonathan for interrupting two of them😊), and let’s not forget the final shot — where Byler stands right alongside the canon couples

So here’s how I see it:

In Season 1, Mike was already in love with Will, but he thought of it as “just friendship.” He didn’t understand why people found it strange — especially his parents. But when Will disappeared, Mike felt that specific kind of ache — and when El showed up, he confused that feeling and thought maybe she’s the one he’s supposed to fall for. She’s a girl. It’s “normal.” Even Lucas said he loved her. So Mike went with that.

Will, on the other hand, might’ve had a small crush on Mike at that point — but I don’t think he fully understood or accepted it yet.

In Season 2, Mike starts to sense something deeper, but he still believes it’s about El. Meanwhile, he treats Will with this quiet protectiveness. There’s something possessive in it too.

And Will? I think that “crazy together” moment is when it finally clicks — this isn’t just friendship for him.

Season 3 is when Mike starts questioning everything. He tries to convince himself he’s in love with El, but the cracks start showing. His thoughts constantly drift back to Will, and he suppresses it — hard.

Then at the end of season El kisses him and says “I love you too” — and I swear, that’s the moment it hits him:

“Oh shit... I’m gay😳”

Plus, when Byres gone to Cali, he realised it was always Will - the person he fell all of this.

Meanwhile, Will already knows how he feels — he’s in love with Mike, and it hurts.

And season 4. Mike knows. He knows he’s in love with Will — but he can’t act on it. Will seems like he doesn’t love him back. Mike’s still dating El, which makes it easy to keep pretending everything’s “normal.”

And deep down, Mike still believes that being in love with a boy is wrong. But slowly, over the course of the season, he starts coming to terms with it.

Will, meanwhile, is fully aware of his feelings — but he can’t confess. Mike’s “in love” with someone else. And even if he wasn’t, loving another boy? That’s terrifying. That’s dangerous.

But by the end of the season, Will starts accepting it too.

And that’s where I think Season 5 is headed:

Will is going to fully accept that he loves Mike and his sexuality — and also accept that Mike might never love him back. He’ll make the decision to move forward, even if it breaks him. He’ll focus on himself. On the fight ahead. On saving the world.

But Mike? Mike will try to stay close. He’ll offer what love he can — even if he still believes they can’t be together.

So in a way, Season 5 will flip the roles:

Mike will become the quiet, selfless one holding back his love (like Will in Season 4) — but still with the softness and protectiveness of S2 Mike. A mix of both (the Mike we love will be back, cheers🥂)

And Will will be the one who has to let go, carry on, and find his own way — just like Mike did before.

But ofc in season 5, they will finally see it. They’ll both realize what’s been between them all along. All the silence, all the almosts, all the waiting — it will finally break. They’ll talk. They’ll understand. And they’ll choose each other. Because they were always meant to.

[llamaisllama777]

Why Eclipse didn't accept Charlie's apology

So, I have a feeling a few people are gonna say Eclipse is a jerk for not accepting Charlie's apology but look at it from his point of view...

Eclipse was a villain, he has been seen as a villain by nearly everyone. He tries to change. He has changed. He put his neck on the line for Charlie and her dad multiple times. He was been the messy shoulder for Charlie to lean on. He's not a perfect person, but he tries. He stuck by her through everything...

And she calls him the villain. She accused him of working with Afton and wanting her dad to die. Eclipse is clearly hurt by that. He just can't really show how hurt he is.

Charlie is basically Eclipse's unofficial 4th kid so to hear her accuse him of working with Afton?

That hurts.

Yes, it was a moment of mental weakness on Charlie's part. It was a mental breakdown, maybe even a manic episode but in that instance she not only accused him of being the villain but also threatening to kill him if he got too close.

Eclipse was the villain, he changed, but it's clear he hates being reminded of what he used to be. And in that instance Charlie basically threw all that back in his face despite all the things he's done for her, she called him the villain.

So, I understand why Eclipse is hurt and I hope more people dig deeper into Eclipse's actions cause Eclipse is such a deep character nowadays.

[willbyersmyboy]

A common defense of Mike Wheeler and Eleven's relationship in Stranger Things holds that their constant emotional friction and silence are "normal 14-year-old problems." Under this logic, there would be nothing objectionable about Mike's avoidance of emotional intimacy, the way Eleven submits or idealizes herself, or the moments of profound disconnect between them. But while this argument may seem reasonable in a real-life context, it seriously fails when analyzing a work of fiction. Stranger Things isn't your average teen documentary: it's a carefully crafted narrative where everything shown—and omitted—communicates something. And what's being communicated in Mileven isn't simply "immaturity," but emotional incompatibility, and a dysfunctional bond sustained more by habit and fantasy than by true connection. When Mileven's defenders appeal to age as an excuse—"they're children, it's normal that they don't know how to talk about their emotions"—they're forgetting that many of the characters, at the same age, display healthier and deeper relational complexities. Will Byers, for example, struggles with a torrent of emotions he can't share, but he doesn't do so from coldness or evasion, but rather from a heartbreaking sensitivity. Lucas struggles to understand Max and grow emotionally. Dustin maintains deep and constant friendships. Why, then, does Mike seem to regress emotionally instead of evolving? Why does he distance himself from his best friend, deny his emotions, and only show affection for Eleven in a superficial and empty way?Because it's not about age. It's about storytelling. The series has built the relationship between Mike and Eleven on flimsy foundations: salvation, idealism, duty. We're never shown that they understand each other deeply. They never share genuine confidences, spiritual doubts, or real fears. When El loses her powers and faces her vulnerability, Mike doesn't know how to handle her. When Mike is insecure about his role in the group, El doesn't seem to see it. Theirs isn't a partnership; it's a broken mirror in which they both project what they wish they had: love, courage, stability.This is where age isn't an excuse. Because Stranger Things hasn't shown Mileven's relationship to be immature, but rather devoid of evolution. Four seasons later, they still don't truly communicate. And that's not because they're 14. It's because they're not written to work together. Because the narrative doesn't want them to work.

[calamitycons]

Deltarant

Thanks for enabling me guys lol!

TL;DR: Deltarune is very messy and unfocused, and this negatively impacted my perception not only of Chapters 3 and 4, but the previous chapters as well. The things I'm most interested in are the things the game scolds me for doing, and this is the same major criticism I had with Undertale. Also, the characters are way too shallow in really weird ways.

EDIT: grammar and spelling checks, I wrote this really fast lmao

Chapter 3 is not a third part in a story, it's Chapter 2: Again.

In Chapter 2, we got what was essentially The Noelle Show, an entire world dedicated to reflecting Noelle's childhood, her personality, her struggles, and ultimately overcoming them through the power of narrative. It's a fun and wacky scenario that is difficult to take seriously because of the lighthearted tone, but what we get about Noelle is substantial information because we knew literally nothing about her beforehand. Chapter 3 is supposed to be The Kris Show, I think. It's supposed to reflect how Kris fell into escapist media to avoid dealing with the messy divorce their parents had, with the not-so-hidden stuff about the creepypasta video game echoing the "relationship" Kris has with the Soul. In that respect, it works just fine. But it also gets fucking annoying as hell, because…

I don't like the characters.

Tenna is a piece of shit. I don't like him, and I resent him for being essentially Spamton 2. Spamton worked for me because he was a very raw and unfiltered look at the kind of desperation and more frightening aspects of mental illness that a lot of people live with. The uglier parts, the scarier parts, the more unsettling and unhealthy elements of his illness were frankly and baldly presented and him being a spambot was an excellent decision because he essentially personified what it would be like to run into a human spam bot. Tenna doesn't have that. Tenna is just a show host who wants attention to try and stop the other people from doing the Plot, which is apparently going to get dark and unsettling really soon. But he's so manipulative, he rubs me wrong because he reminds me of real-life slippery manipulators and abusers I've interacted with before. I don't like him, I don't want to spare him, but I know that if I don't spare him then the fandom will eat me alive because if you dare to do anything other than The One Bestest Most Correct Timeline, you're a bad person. I also don't appreciate the aesthetic and thematic similarities between Spamton and Tenna because after two years, I expected something NEW. But I guess if this was the Kris Show, then it wasn't in the cards for Tenna to be anything other than a reflection of Kris in a similar way? But speaking of Kris…

The stuff I'm interested in doing is stuff the game actively scolds me for doing.

I will never understand why this is a theme in the Undertale-Deltarune body of work, because a game requires so much effort and work on the part of the developers for it to function. Why do you keep going to so much trouble to include something to explicitly make the player feel like an asshole for doing? Why are you spending so much time telling us what we're doing is evil when you could have very easily not included that point? The double bind criticism I had of the Genocide Route in Undertale continues to be a problem in Deltarune but this time it's even worse, because I'm sorry, but you really are taking too long. It has been literal years. You have been saying the same thing to us for a total of 10 years now, ever since Undertale came out in 2015. It's tiring to continually be told by this one game series that the only acceptable way to play it is shallowly, that I am punished for being interested in the deeper secrets and spooky elements that THE DEVS INCLUDED. Like jeez dude, I'm SORRY that I like being challenged in a challenging dodge-mechanic video game! I'm SORRY that I like the horror elements of your story that you wrote and took dev time and manpower to include, because I think you also believe it is cool. After all, we both love OFF. But the big thing that makes OFF's entire everything different from Undertale's Genocide Route and Deltarune's Spooky Shit is that OFF, while jokingly claiming to be "a nice game for cute children," was always an unsettlingly surreal and atmospheric game filled with things that were, well, off.

What is Deltarune about?

Look man, one of my favorite genres is "The Magic School Bus Slowly Becoming Dune" (as coined by WoolieVS), but while Deltarune wants to be that, it isn't really accomplishing it. The spooky stuff I'm interested in, the sweaty gamer stuff, the epic feats of skill and epic gamer moments I want to do, are not what the game wants me to do. So what DOES Deltarune want me to do? Undertale and Deltarune want you to think it's a narrative bullet-hell game about humans and monsters, and while Undertale had a clear ultimate theme of "don't kill, and don't be killed," Deltarune… uhhhh… Is Deltarune a story about human and monster kids learning about themselves and growing into better people through exploring the Dark World that manifests from their will, so that they can explore the world manifest by their own psyche? Like Susie going through the card-and-boardgame world to learn to be kind by interacting with a tiny child? Like Noelle learning to stand up for herself after exploring a world tyrannized by an overbearing and obnoxious maternal figure? Like Kris… uhhhh… What is Delatrune ABOUT? Is it about the spooky scary skeleton in the closet behind the code who has a little person saying shit in hidden docs that crazy people have to dig around to find? All the stuff about the Eggs and the Shadow Crystals seems to be leading us to finally seeing that motherfucking Skeledoc I've been dying to see for a literal decade at this point, but after so long waiting we still have yet to speak to him or understand him. Is Gaster the Egg Man? Is he the voice who made our vessel at the start of the game? Is he both? Is he neither? Will this EVER be resolved? And how does it interact with Undertale?

Deltarune has a lot of shit that I wasn't interested in.

The shmoopy lesbians

are fine, they can have their fun and are allowed to exist, I'm happy for them. I'm not interested in it though, because I don't think anything in their relationship is particularly engaging. They're just two kids who like each other, but nothing about their relationship actually seems to drive them to grow or change in any way. I don't know why they aren't already dating, they clearly like each other and should be together so that we can get past this part of the story already because they have BEEN shmoopy lesbians with no relationship movement for real-world years.

The Darkners in Dark Town

are bit parts. It's genuinely disappointing to me that Lancer has become so inconsequential to the entire plot after all his importance in reflecting Susie and who she was. The other Darkners have proven that, even if they initially have thematic resonance or importance to a character such as Queen to Noelle or Lancer to Susie, after the chapter is over it is time to put them the fuck away because they don't matter anymore. Lanino and Elnina are the most shallow possible interpretation of how a couple breaks up, but it doesn't matter because they go away as soon as their role in the plot is done. It's a very annoying feeling of discarding what is no longer useful, or "using things up," which the game also hates US for doing but I guess it's okay when the game does it because???????? It also particularly makes Chapter 1 feel like a waste of time, because Chatper 4's Gerson ALSO worked hard to push Susie to grow up and improve as a person, and honestly I'm coming to find her less interesting as a result because she has lost a lot of her initial edge and depth to ultimately become Kris's Fellow Weirdo.

Susie and Kris are often written as basically the same character

but there are two instances of them. There is nothing that Susie would do in any situation that Kris would not, or would do differently. If Susie were the one possessed by a Soul, I bet she would do a lot of the exact same things Kris is doing. If Kris were the bully and Susie the bullied, I think they would have the same reactions and behaviors. They SHOULDN'T be the same character. They have so many differences in their backstories, their species, their abilities, their interests. But their BEHAVIOR is exactly the same, and that is a fundamental writing weakness. I genuinely don't even know how this happened, but after hours of playtime and years of waiting, the only thing I can genuinely say that Kris would be willing to do but Susie wouldn't, is the Dark World Puzzles. Their moment-to-moment decisions are indistinguishable, and that's a huge problem for me.

Oh god I've written 1500 words

I think I got most of my problems out of my system so I'll stop here, but that's the majority of the issues I've had with Deltarune. Thank you for reading all of that if you did, holy shit.

[haxanhexes]

anywayyyy re: post about caitlyn's bush--in general I kind of have a lot of beef with the way people depict Caitlyn as femme and what they’re saying about what being femme entails. and it's that second part where it really goes wrong.

(putting under a read more bc this ended up being an essay oopsie)

it’s absolutely possible to attach being femme to Caitlyn without tossing out her characterization, and I personally like to view her as femme and Vi butch. probably because i am femme and have a very subjective view of this dynamic and these identities. but this is important to how i view being femme and my reading of caitlyn as femme -> while aesthetics absolutely play a part in both identities, it's crucial (in my understanding and experience) that they are deeper than surface-level. And a big part of femme aesthetics are about taking the parts of femininity you enjoy or appreciate and reject what doesn't suit you -- including things like shaving body hair, wearing dresses/skirts/heels, getting your nails done, putting on makeup. You could throw all those things out and still be femme.

it isn’t canon that she’s femme. this is really important, because it's not a stated identity in the show, it's just something some of us headcanon. however, it's really important to pay attention to her canon characterization to depict her as femme and do justice to her character! If she's femme, she's not hyperfeminine.

She really doesn’t really choose to wear dresses or skirts in the show after we see her in her s1 and early s2 enforcer uniform. So on a basic level, she’s not particularly fussy or conventionally feminine in the way she dresses herself. and that extends to things like Caitlyn doing her makeup, shaving her body hair, getting her nails done. To me she comes across as someone who's very practical about her appearance. she wants to command respect, but she doesn't want to put a ton of thought into her look every day. so IS she spending the time it takes to wax off her pubes? (also in general i love a hairy woman, and i know i'm correct here)

also tbh i just need more people to get on board with a depiction of a messy/disastrous/feral femme. i think in a lot of depictions of caitlyn as femme her edges are sanded off.

anyway one of the main reasons i like to view caitvi as butchfemme is that a really core aspect of this relationship dynamic is a mutual desire to protect each other in complementary ways. there is so much to caitvi that i think perfectly reflects this dynamic but i think the femme identity is really misunderstood to necessitate a very aggressively feminine appearance. maybe this was the case in the 40s or 50s, but that's not been my experience--with myself or any other femme i know. idk maybe i'm wrong! i feel like i'm not though.

it doesn’t exactly annoy me to mischaracterize Caitlyn but it does really annoy me what this is saying about how people view the femme identity.

[andysyearn]

the echo of rivalry

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: War Paint (Musical)

Relationship: Helena Rubinstein / Elizabeth Arden

Characters: Helena Rubinstein, Elizabeth Arden

༶•┈┈⛧┈♛♡♛┈⛧┈┈•༶

Summary: top!helena, bottom!elizabeth

Notes: I used translator for Polish. I understand that because I'm czech myself #slaviclanguages but it's still a foreign language to me. So I hope everything is correct

you can read it on AO3 as well → link

It was dark and peaceful outside, the night sky was lightned up by the moon with the touch of faintly flickering stars. The streets were dimly lit by the streetlights and every now and then one could hear a passing car. 

Between the boulevard buildings and the theater sat a luxuriously furnished skyscraper. Its walls seeming massive and thick that not even the sound itself of traffic could get through it...

...because if it, in fact, did all those people around would already know that the two biggest rivals were silently seeing each other. 

Two opponents who were always the shining stars of the front pages.

Scandalious, right?

But that reality was for the public eyes only.

"Helena..." Elizabeth groaned. 

Helena's appetite to see and hear her wannabe rival being beautiful mess beneath her was extremely great today. She wanted to feed her own hunger.

"Jesteś taka piękna, kiedy jesteś pode mną.” Helen whispered, her breath slightly brushing Elizabeth's skin, pulling her hair, closer to her. 

You're so beautiful under me.

Her hips moved at a pace that drove Elizabeth crazy. Helena's dildo attached on her strap on lashed Elizabeth's walls and she answered back with louder sobs and groans.

Elizabeth Arden had no idea what Helena just whispered to her but her tone suggested it was some sort of praise. Helena always whispered things to her in Polish, praising her, silently complimenting her. That's how Arden liked it.

Elizabeth sounded always so sweet taking these praises and even more when she was taking Helena herself, she was her dobra dziewczyna. Good girl.

Elizabeth shivered, waves of pleasure clouding her mind. "More..." she slumped into her pillow. 

"What was that?" Helena asked, her Polish accent made this question unbearably hot. Even though she heard Liz very well, she revelled in it and had no intention of giving Elizabeth what she had asked for. Not without showing some manners first.

"I want more, Helen-ah..." another thrust, another moan falling off Arden's lips. "Please." Elizabeth added, she could hear only a slight chuckle behind her, Helena's tone somehow deeper but teasing...

"Ładnie, gołąbku... ale kogo pytasz?" Arden whimpered, a mix of frustration at the language barrier and excitement, sadly unable to articulate a single coherent sentence. Helena smiled faintly, looking at Liz' miserable state. She was so wet for her, every thrust, every pound, she was taking it so well. "I said who are you asking, dove?” She translated.

"Please, Madame Rubinstein.” Helena squeezed Arden's hips slightly, letting her know she'd done well. Her own back was just beginning to hurt unfortunately, but she didn't show it. She wasn't in the shape as she once was, but that certainly didn't ruin moments like these. Her fingers gently touched Elizabeth's back, sliding up until she reached out to her lover's neck, so she brushed her hair aside and put her own lips on the back of her neck, teasing and then whispered. "You'll have to work for it, dove"

The two moved, Helena gently held Liz's hips as she lied down, on the back. Elizabeth slid herself on top of Rubinstein, taking her shaft again like a good girl she was as she turned to look at Helena. She began to move again, Helena was moving her hips just enough to give Arden some friction.

What a scenery.

Seeing the taller blonde enjoying herself on top of her - all the moans, whines and grunts were only for her and that turned Helena on so much. 

"Just like that. You're so beautiful.” She grabbed her lover's breast and began squeezing it, massaging it. She was mostly focused on Elizabeth's hardening nipple. 

Arden looked down at Helena and her blissful-filled gaze with passion and lust. Rocking herself up and down, feeling Helena's touch on her very sensitive breasts, oh, she couldn't keep her eyes at her for long. Her eyes slightly closed and rolled up with excitement. She was close.

Helena stopped paying attention to Liz' nipple for a moment, she leaned her hand behind her instead, still holding Liz with the other one and lifted herself up to sit. 

Fuck the back, now it's more important to destroy or rather ruin this beauty in front of her. 

She could feel the heat in her cheeks, the pleasant warmth spreading through her body, her clitoris completely swollen with the excitement, her pussy pulsating.

"O mój Boże, Elizabeth." Oh my God. she yelped, for she felt Elizabeth's nails digging into her shoulders, suggesting that she was very close to the climax. So Helena buried in Arden's breasts once again, this time with her face.

Her tongue traveled on her fair, now goosebump erupted skin until it reached where her hand originally had been before. She started sucking the already hard nipple, toying with it in her mouth, her tongue flickering hard over it. She sucked on it so much to create some pressure. Her teeth surrounded the nipple and she bit it. Elizabeth gasped so loud, a spark of electricity flashed through her body so quickly.

"LORD. HELENA. I'M GONN-" She didn't even finish it, her thighs started to twitch and a loud moan filled the room while Helena's lap was filled with Elizabeth's squirt. That made Helena's clitoris throb.

“Kurwa.” Helena moaned. “Złotko.” Fuck. Honey. Elizabeth couldn't move on her own, she was overstimulated, her body slowly leaning towards Helena, hughing her, seeking touch. She felt boneless. 

Helena gently hugged her back, slowing down the pace, riding off the aftermath. 

She stopped once Liz started twitching and groaning. She kissed her neck, rubbing gently her back. “I will move you on your back so I can pull the dildo out, is that okay?” 

Elizabeth quietly sighed in agreement. And so Helena did, taking her time, carefully moving Elizabeth on the back and pulling out the dildo. She stripped the strap on down as she was watching Elizabeth still laying still and quiet. Her pussy still throbbing, some of her hairs being sticked together, glistening with the cum. 

Helena was still turned on, she could feel the heat in between her legs, she didn't cum but this wasn't really about her, not this time. these moments reminded her that something that started as hatefuck turned into something so soft and innocent. She threw the strap on aside and crawled her way back to Elizabeth. Burying her hand into her lover's hair, playing with them. Elizabeth looked at her, no words. She just craved touch. 

“You did so well. Always so messy yet so pretty for me.” Helena praised and kissed Arden's forehead. 

Elizabeth moved closer to Helena, hugging her, her gaze softer.

“I don't want to hate you anymore, Helena.”

“Neither do I.”

[farouche-landau]

This absolutely lived up to my expectations! One thing I was really looking forward to was discussion of the character of Seb, who was the one I really noticed on my recent reread in preparation for this episode, and the one who I saw new depth in, partly thanks to the earlier @eightdaysofdiana episodes talking about the awful/selfish boy characters in Diana's other books! Personal context: Fire and Hemlock was my favorite book when I was a teenager, I read it so many times that by the start of my 20s I felt like I had it memorized, and then I didn't reread it for like a decade and a half. When I was younger my reaction to Seb was, like, OMG this guy is so awful, he is the worst, I had negative interest in reading Michael Moorcock after that, fortunately I got to listen to The Doors without realizing who they were. (I absolutely do think that Riders on the Storm is both a great song and thematically relevant to Fire and Hemlock!)

But this time around I stopped to look at things from his perspective, and I found him more sympathetic. (I also now have a pet theory that maybe he's supposed to be a Moorcock protagonist portrayed from an unflattering perspective, but I still don't want to read Moorcock, so I hope someone who has can confirm or deny this.) I was glad to see that the podcast reached many of the same conclusions that I did! But there were a few points I wanted to go deeper on. Spoilers for Fire and Hemlock below.

To jump off from Rebecca Fraimow says in the podcast: "I just realized that it is absolutely insane for Tom to say he's going to take Seb out of the funeral. It's his mother's funeral." It is Seb's mother's funeral! But not just that -- Seb's mother has just been sacrificed to hell by the rest of the family, and not only do they not care, they're pretending that it's actually Laurel's mother who died -- the will is of a Perry Leroy, not of Seb's mother, who was "ordinary", and Tom also tells Polly the funeral is for his ex-wife's mother. Tom does understand what's really going on, which is why he calls Seb "the poor boy" when he mentions wanting to get Seb out of the incredibly boring reading of a will that isn't even his mother's. But on the other hand, we, and Polly, have no idea what Seb is going through, so our reaction is Polly's: "What a horrible, rude boy!" And although Polly warms up to Seb over the course of the book, we never really see what he does to earn it. And it's significant that when Seb meets up with Polly in Middleton, the first thing he does is take Polly and Granny's photographs, which in this worldbuilding gives him some sort of power over them (we don't know if the camera he used is the one that Tom gave him when he was young, but if so that gives extra significance!). My theory is that this is why Granny doesn't mistrust Seb even though he's from That House, and why Polly is so soft to him. And of course Seb also pushes Polly to take her drastic move that cuts her off from Tom. And it's only in the avalanche of revelations at the end of the book, we learn that actually it was Seb's mother who had been sacrificed nine years ago. Polly does process this and realizes why Seb has been doing what he did, but while she understands it, she's not okay with it. And I'm not either! I still don't like Seb, but I'm now old enough that he just seems selfish and immature to me, rather than evil. I'd kind of like to see a redemption arc for him, but this is going to be made more difficult from his new position as Laurel's consort King -- I think it's going to continue to be easier for him to hurt people and hard for him to see their point of view. One last thing: I think that Tom was the closest thing that Seb had to a healthy adult male role model growing up, and at the funeral Tom may be the only person around who actually cares about Seb as a person. But then Seb seems Tom with Polly, and can tell that Polly has the potential to save Tom from being the next sacrifice, and as such is a direct threat to Seb's plan to keep from being sent to hell like his mother just was. And, to end, I'm noticing for the first time the line about how Tom reacts when Seb rejects him at the funeral: "He stood looking the way the boy had gone, in an absent, unhappy way that made Polly uncomfotable."

She realized he had sat down on purpose near the door, and she knew, perhaps without quite understanding it, that if she ran away, it would mean he had to go back into the funeral again. She was his excuse for coming out of it, so she stayed.

A man who wants to craft himself a Janet, a girl who wants to make herself a hero, and the full three hours we spend working through the powerful fictions and terrible truths that result.

[NB: themes of grooming and child abuse are woven pretty inextricably through our conversation this episode. Also, it is Three Hours Long.] 

Transcript available here, and we'll be back next week for Howl's Moving Castle with another incredible guest! 

[ronanlynchusurper]

i don’t think we talk enough about declan being equally as down bad and ‘all or nothing’ with romance as ronan is. like yes ronan said he would start wars and burn cities for adam’s true smile, begged god for adam after he first saw him and fortuitously had all his objects of worship were in one downtown block etc but ronan had known adam atleast 18 months at this stage. whereas declan really risked it all to get tyrian purple overnight for a first date gift after ONE conversation…the man was discussing their marriage as a ‘when’ not an ‘if’ before we even saw them kiss like what’s his excuse lmaoo

[cutemothman]

The X-Files 1.13 "Beyond The Sea"

[skymantle]

obviously carol has been set up to be an antagonist in some way but some people are WAAAAY too eager to use every misogynistic insult they know ESPECIALLY people who complain toriel won't take asgore back. wonder if there's any connection there

[staryseraphim]

Not being devils advocate here merely putting out a common issue that I’ve seen and heard regarding being drawing PoC characters and that is skin tone.

Skin tone, especially for darker tones, is a fine line between oversaturated and undersaturated. Too bright they’re orange like a highlighter. Too grey and they’re an ashy purple.

The best way I learnt to try and understand how to render different skin tones is applying makeup knowledge. Foundation chemistry is an art form I mean look at TirTir! They got told to go back to the lab and learn and they did! Listening and learning to PoC makeup content creators helped me a lot.

A black person wont use the same blush that I use! I have to use a light baby pink because I’m #FFFFFF vampiric and they have to use a deep red or magenta! And the same thought process applies to your digital rendering of skin tones

Your multiplayer layer of primary yellow blue and red won’t work on every skin tone! And that’s because of undertones! We are making the undertones!

Olive skin will need more green and yellow shifted primaries whilst cold will need more blue and purple shifted.

But this doesn’t matter if your foundation is whack.

Let’s have a look at Sabine because it has taken me so long to work out a realistic skin tone for her so I feel confident discussing this. Clearly, she is a woman of colour. It just so happens that her main colour when you colour pick is orange. I’m not kidding I’ve colour picked and freaked out because it is truly the most saturated orange I’ve seen for a while (not discrediting that there are warm medium skin tones) and it does come down to how saturated SSO is in general (does anyone else get headaches?)

My immediate reaction is to desaturate so I’m gonna go into a more grey area but not too grey! It’s a goldilocks principle! And then her shadows would be a bit more desaturated because she’s well…in shadow. With the undertones I’d go more a warm yellow, a halfway point between red and magenta and then a blue-purple.

Jay is darker than Sabine but also hella orange too liek I think they’re on the same saturation level too. I remember my crash out realising the SSO screenshot colour drops matching. To counteract this we drop saturation and light level but WE NEVER GO TO PURPLE OR LIKE A WEIRD WARM GREY. It makes them (and POC in general) look ashy and it’s…i don’t know how to explain it but it feels disrespectful and also very half assed.

Back to the makeup:

Most companies have an orange issue so please be mindful of that. Brands like L’Oréal has some pretty wide spread foundation series like True Labs which have photos online you can look at.

You’ll notice that there’s still colour variance and never any grey. In fact I remember an MUA mentioning that deeper tones tend to go more pink based than orange. Skin is weird and wonderful.

TLDR: your fear of rendering skin tones is probably the most common thing of artists especially amongst white artists but it doesn’t excuse your bigotry and lack of flexibility. You have the internet and and entire industry that has spent billions on investing into skin colour match and diversity.

Observation is the best lesson

If you are drawing an Indian character, go search up an Indian MUA. You don’t have to understand the language because art is a language! You can colour contour they’re using, their concealer their blush.

Do the same for every race and ethnicity you feel uncomfortable rendering.

I wouldn’t recommend TV shows or movie screen caps (unless in natural lighting) because there tends to be a colour grading on top (see: Twilight) that can mess with colour drops. If you are though, make sure the colours are in a “family” like if the scene is blue, is everyone under the same blue tint.

You have so much knowledge at your finger tips. Use it.

not to drag the sso community but lowkey it's shocking the way some of the people in this community realized they can get away w never ever drawing nonwhite or chubby people or linda with actual ethnic features and not just barbie with a tan if they just only draw the OG designs for the soul riders 😐 dgmw i like the og designs too but i basically exclusively see art of linda and lisa as their og designs like LOLLLL come on guys... i've seen more fanart of their og designs now than i ever did back in the heyday of old sso or starshine legacy 😶 and even if it WAS just bc there are now new players then that's even worse bc they wouldn't even have been playing when those character models were in the game, so that's obviously because they just prefer the designs where lisa is pale and white and linda isn't chubby or actually ethnic looking. and i don't wanna hear no "i just prefer the designs" shit like people can't make artistic liberties. i do it all the time watch this i can draw old design linda chubby with a bigger nose and brown eyes. same with lisa! Now everybody do it.