#Commentary meme

[im-a-king-baby]

I love the laura bonus ficlet! Do you maybe can write about her thoughts of when she found out that it was Wilhelm who was there with Simon in Bjärstad?

Thank you for loving Laura! (The previous Laura ficlet is here to give context)

Also for the reblogs, this is a bonus ficlet from my longer YR fic Everybody Loves You Now!

This picks up from slightly later in the conversation in the car between Simon and Laura.

Laura considers her next question for all of thirty seconds before going with her gut. “Is ‘Fuck this Motherfucker’ about Candace?”

Simme laughs. She made Simme laugh! There's a little buzz of pride in her stomach. “Is that what people think? You guys know I didn’t write it, right?”

“I know, but you said you always try to have a concept in mind when you sing, to make the songs about something.”

He gives a little nod, acknowledging her point. “True. I guess it’s about Candace a lot.” He shrugs. “But one time it was definitely about this stretch of highway we’d been on the night before that was so full of potholes -”

“Atlanta to Nashville,” she says, instinctively, like this is some Simme trivia game and not just her knowing a weird number of facts about his actual life. “Sorry. I just… I saw the video.”

She glances sideways at him again. He looks amused rather than mad, and he hasn’t refused to answer any of her questions yet so she kind of has to. “Can I ask… Who do you think about when you sing the love songs?”

“Wilhelm.”

There’s no hesitation to it. No equivocations, no questioning. Just the name, said so softly that it takes her a moment to connect it to the reality of Crown Prince Wilhelm who gives speeches on Year with the Royal Family and gets photographed in suits hugging babies and opening hospitals.

It’s a weird crossing of streams, realising The Crown Prince is a person and there are people he dated in high school who say his name like it’s something precious they want to keep hold of.

But like, that was four years ago. And Simme hasn’t even been back to Sweden since. “Still?” she finds herself asking.

“Yeah.” He’s looking out the window, at the shadows of trees in the darkness. “He’s the only… there’s never been anyone else.”

There have been four years of constant wall to wall news coverage of Simme with this popstar or that actor or this reality TV star. Simme laughing off his high school relationship with the Prince of Sweden like it was nothing at all. “I thought… I mean we all heard about Alfonso…”

He laughs something bitter lingering at the edges to it. “I thought it was a marketing stunt, he thought it was true love. We didn’t last.”

“But you and Wilhelm are still…”

“No,” he says. “We’re not.” His fingers drum against the door handle. “Can you pull over? Just for a minute. I need to do something.”

*

She’s at that point where she’s basically awake but is refusing to admit it, nestled down into the covers trying to avoid opening her eyes, half thinking that if she does everything that happened last night is going to turn out to be a wild dream and she’ll be back in Gothenburg about to wake up and drive to Stockholm to meet Stan and see the show.

Then there’s a gentle knock on the door and an unmistakable voice says, “Hey? Can I come in?” and Laura opens her eyes to a closet-sized bedroom with posters of horses on the walls.

She’d found a nightshirt to sleep in that falls all the way down to her knees, so she’s decent enough to sit up and say, “Okay?”

Simme steps into the room. He’s changed into a purple hoodie, but otherwise he looks much the same. Like he hasn’t slept or showered since he dug out a silk pillowcase from the depths of the linen cupboard. His eyes catch on the horse posters, lingering a moment too long before he looks down at her. “There’s lunch. If you’re hungry.”

She wants to ask ‘are you okay?’ but his eyes keep darting back to the walls, his hands are twitching and he had to pull over multiple times so he could snort a powder that she’s really hoping was not cocaine so she’s not sure she’s ready for the answer.

Also now he’s mentioned food, she’s realising she’s starving. “Sure.”

He nods, takes a step back so she can stand up and then leads her back down the tiny hallway, past family photos that she resists the urge to stop and peer at, and into the kitchen where there are two strangers setting the table and one of them is Crown Prince Wilhelm.

She lets out a noise that might be a yelp, starts a, “You’re-” but thankfully cuts herself off before she can say something completely idiotic like ‘you’re here’ or ‘you’re the prince’ or ‘you’re taller than you look on TV.’

It turns out there is a difference between knowing there is something going on between Simme and the Prince and actually seeing said prince in the flesh wearing Simme’s white hoodie instead of a neatly pressed suit and setting out plates on the kitchen table.

Only the hoodie was oversize on Simme but clearly fits Prince Wilhelm just fine so that’s… a thing.

“Hello,” she says, trying to get back to normal only this isn’t normal because he’s a prince so like. “I mean, your majesty.”

Prince Wilhelm smiles. Up close, it’s the same kind of smile Simme keeps giving her, the one he seems able to paste over whatever he’s really feeling in the moment. “Your majesty is my mother,” he says. “Call me Wilhelm.”

Which of course just reminds her of being in the car the night before, the way Simme’s voice softened on Wilhelm’s name. And Simme had said they weren’t still… but Wilhelm is here, in this middle-of-nowhere town. Not Simme’s team, not Candace, just Wilhelm.

A good half of the internet would pay a large fortune for a glimpse of what she's seeing now. The way Wilhelm's eyes track Simme's progress through the room, the way Simme's whole body seems angled towards the Prince even when they're not interacting at all.

"Have you told anyone you're here?" Wilhelm's bodyguard asks her.

She hasn't. And as Wilhelm and Simon both reach for a plate at the same time and flinch back a moment before their fingers brush, she knows she never will.

[naiatabris]

There are so many things I could pick for a commentary, but... dealer's choice from Chapter 12 of Denerim Confidential?

Aaah thanks Lykegenia! <3 I'm going to pick Zevran's short internal monologue as he waits outside the bar for the chance to complete his mission--which, in this AU, is killing Alistair. TW for suicidal thoughts/ideation after the break.

Link to Chapter 12

The bartender was alone.

Quietly, though he did not think anyone was listening, Zevran reached for the glove box on the car. Inside was a small, elegant arsenal: his favorite knife, just the right size for a killing blow delivered from the shadows, along with a pistol and silencer. He reached for the gun and wrapped his hand around the grip, pulling it into his lap with a strange sense of longing.

I could end it now.

Zevran was not sure if he was thinking of Alistair Guerrin’s life, or his own.

He had bid on this job because it was far from Antiva—far from Rinna’s memory. But more than that, the mystery of it appealed to him. A contact who refused to be contacted in person. Payments not through discreet banks that used pseudonyms, but in cash. This kind of obsessive anonymity was often a sign that the client would try kill the assassin after the job was complete—usually a drawback for the Crows. For Zevran, that possibility supplied a large portion of the job’s appeal.

But he was beginning to wonder just what sort of shadowy conspiracy wanted a joke-cracking bartender threatened and then killed. He had been scolded for such curiosity by superiors before, of course. He’d learned to keep those questions under wraps when working with other members of the Crows. Their job was to provide results, not wonder about the reasons, as he had been told many times. But he was alone now and could wonder as much as he liked.

A few things were important to me here. First, I wanted to make sure the fic wasn't softening Zevran on this first meeting. He is absolutely still a Crow, and he absolutely intends to kill Alistair. There will be no last-minute change of heart, no purposeful incompetence leading to a failed job. His plan is to do the job and do it well.

But I also wanted to show some interiority, some signs of the Zevran we come to know and trust in canon. So I wrote him speculating on who wants this job done, which I don't think he would have been encouraged to do as a Crow--and thinking about Rinna, who met a fate in this AU very similar to the one she met in canon.

Finally, I wanted to make it clear that Zevran is suicidal right now. He doesn't plan to hurt himself, but he can't help thinking about it now and then, and he absolutely believes that whoever ordered this extremely weird job is going to kill him later. It's the reason he's out here in Ferelden, after all.

All of this is borrowed fairly directly from canon so I also wanted to make sure I put an urban-fantasy AU spin on it, although I think that shows up more in other sections.

[queen-scribbles]

⭐👀

Rolling back to It's Cold Outside bc I'm still a little giddy I finally managed to finish that one.😁😁 ---

Specifically talking about this bit:

[Adela] reached over and squeezed [Heodan's] knee. “Not everyone is as nice and accepting as you.”

That’s part of why I like you, she added to herself.

He made a noise of reluctant concession and gave her a wry smile. “According to you, my being so nice is why I’m here, all the way across the ocean, rather than one of my brothers.”

“I’m still allowed to be glad you’re here, even being pretty sure you got the short straw because you wouldn’t tell your family no,” Adela said with a laugh.

Heodan studied her face for a moment, gleam of firelight dancing in his eyes.  “Who says I see it as the short straw?” he asked. “I like it here, Adi. I’m glad I met- all of you, got to have a bit of adventure--”

“Even if more than originally planned?” she cut in wryly.

“Even so.” He flexed the hand of his injured arm and smiled. “My nephews think I’m just about the most interesting person in the world, according to Gyran’s last letter.”

“Oh?” Adela smiled, playing with the tail of her braid.

“You, of course, are the most interesting, since you’re the leader,” Heodan clarified with an answering smile, which made her laugh.

“Well, you can tell them I’m flattered,” she said. She let her legs relax down, feet dangling over the floor, and shivered a little even if the fire was plenty warm. “You write your family about me, huh?” she teased, even as the thought made her insides do a funny little flip.

Was it her imagination or did his face go slightly pink at the needling? The firelight made it hard to tell. “They like to hear what I’m doing. You’ve been there for... everything since Echo Bay,” Heodan teased back. “It would be difficult not to mention you.” ---

There's so much verbal dancing going on in this whole conversation, it was so fun to write. It's far enough into things Adi's feeling have definitely moved from crush to like-liking him, she's trying not to admit that for the trusty old saw of Not Ruining Friendship BUT she's so heart on sleeve it bleeds through a little anyway. Heodan's at the point where he's starting to pick up the hints, but since she's not saying anything about Feelings he's wondering/rationalizing other things it could be.

And they're friends. They just like each other's company. (Part of why Adi's not saying anything directly; she knows whether or not the feeling's mutual it'll change their dynamic and she's weighing if that's worth the risk) They tease each other, get offended on the other's behalf, don't mind getting trapped together. :3 (btw the 👀👀👀 looks from Edér and Sagani after they finally get out of Brighthollow were almost enough to drag an accidental confession from Adi, those two were not being subtle. xD)

It's just fun to write characters in a conversation where I get to indulge my love of fluff/banter but there's also more going on under the surface.

[positivelybeastly]

"There was a momentary wobble of a finger, a halting breath - before the scalpel moved, the gleaming stainless steel tip pressing to warm, unmoving flesh, unzipping the thin layer of - in front of the - that covered the, sternum, that . . .

Blood.

A clatter, a turn of a stomach. And then warm, pale fingers on the back of his neck, and Henry went stiff, feeling the familiar touch of his - mentor's hand on the so very human looking flesh of his neck."

[At the risk of tossing in the entire post, I will just include this portion. Amazing. Spectacular. Incredible.]

You do me entirely too much credit, friend. 🩵

So, this was something I've been wanting to write for a while now - the creation of Dark Beast, so many years ago in the Age of Apocalypse - and it's mostly because we have no idea what his early life was actually like. We can guess a bit, based on what we know about 616 Hank and how his early life went, but the Age of Apocalypse is a goddamn nuclear mutant supremacist nightmare, so we have to assume things went very differently.

When you start to fill in the holes in a character's history, you generally - or, well, I do, anyway - look at what you know about that character and then extrapolate backwards, and something that's always struck me about Dark Beast is his relationship with fear.

He clearly loves to instil it in others, clearly revels in being a figure of horror and power, but this isn't something you really see in Hank, he does exactly the opposite, he minimises, he clowns, he dresses and accessorises to make himself seem less threatening.

In Hank's case, that's a reaction to people seeing him as a threat, despite what he has to offer. Even when he looks human, he's afraid of being recognised as a mutant, and kinda rightly so - the instant he displays his talents, someone tries to take advantage of him, his parents get a little freaked out, and his life crumbles. But that's in a society that values normalcy, that values the human baseline.

So what does that look like in a society that values the 'abnormal,' that values mutant power? Suddenly, Dark Beast is, at least to start with, weak. He's fleshy, he's human looking, he just has big hands and feet, he's barely a mutant in the visual sense - and the only valuable thing about him is his brain, which is where Sinister comes in.

In the comics, they have an odd relationship - not quite peers, not quite enemies, not quite rivals, something all mixed up and strange, and I've always interpreted it as vaguely parental, or, at least, as parental as it gets with someone like Sinister. But he's also clearly afraid of Sinister. The entire reason he swapped places with Hank in the 90s was because he wanted to hide in plain sight, from a "very powerful man."

So, we can assume a mentor-student relationship that was - not kind. We also know that Dark Beast doesn't really know his family, since he doesn't recognise his grandmother's name in the issue where he nearly kills Hank's parents, so we have to assume he was taken young. Now, this upbringing can't have been fun by any measure, but Sinister isn't the type to just start beating and abusing a kid with obvious incredible mental gifts, so he has to be - gentle. By his standards, anyway.

Which means . . . well, there's no real way around it, grooming. I don't think in a sexual manner, but to try and mould a young Dark Beast into a worthy pupil, absolutely. Look, all the books you could want to read, a safe place in this hellish environment, freedom to do as you wish - by comparison, he has it good. And even if I doubt there was any real warmth there, it's easy to imagine Dark Beast feels indebted. A degree of attachment to the only caretaker he's ever really known. A need to impress, which is something that 616 Hank feels very often as well, a need for validation, which is so easily manipulated.

So, you have all of this incredible mental pressure being applied to this young kid, and he's trying so hard to perform.

"There was a momentary wobble of a finger, a halting breath - before the scalpel moved, the gleaming stainless steel tip pressing to warm, unmoving flesh"

In this little opening, you don't get Henry's name in narration, it's just his actions. He wobbles, he breathes heavy, the scalpel moves as if on its own, and it's partly because he's trying to remove himself from this equation, trying to separate his consciousness from what he's actually doing, but it's also because Sinister is sucking the air out of the room and exerting his control over his protege. There is no autonomy here, there is no Sinister and his student, it's just Sinister and the extension of his will. There's just fear, and tension, and disappointment, and a child being forced to hurt someone because it's what his caretaker expects of him.

"unzipping the thin layer of - in front of the - that covered the, sternum, that . . ."

This is Henry trying desperately to keep this clinical, but I think that there's still too much warmth in him to keep that straight, so he keeps fumbling, like a kid being put on the spot in a classroom and trying to find the right page in the book that'll get him out of trouble. He can't detach himself, it's still his fingers hurting someone.

There's a reason you do so much training to be a surgeon, you have to learn so much about adopting the proper mental state and schooling your emotions, but with Sinister? No. You do it when I tell you to do it, and if you feel anything about it, then that's your personal failing. That's the weak, human part of you that our society despises.

"Blood. A clatter, a turn of a stomach.""

It's one thing to start cutting, it's another to see someone bleeding. We don't even know how much there was, how much Henry's actually cut, but it's enough that it's all he can focus on, that little bloom around the scalpel tip means that this is real. This isn't a medical textbook, this isn't a cadaver, this is someone who is still alive and that is -

He can't stand it.

I also like creating a mental soundscape and letting the reader's brain fill in the blanks - it's fine but a tad boring to just write that he dropped the scalpel and he feels sick. But if there's a clatter, you, the reader, know exactly what happened, except now you've heard the sound in your head, you've put yourself just a little bit in Henry's shoes, even if you're only hearing what he's hearing. Especially in introspective pieces like this, it's really important to try and foster a connection between the reader and the character.

"And then warm, pale fingers on the back of his neck, and Henry went stiff, feeling the familiar touch of his - mentor's hand on the so very human looking flesh of his neck."

Something I love to play around with is very exacting use of bold and italics. I find it creates a good sense of cadence and rhythm, and denotes an easy signifier of something being important and worth dwelling on - it draws the eye, so you focus on it. You ask, why that word, and especially depending on what you surround it with, it can denote such passion and warmth, or cold, lip curled disgust.

This is probably the most basic literary technique ever, but it's still important because you want to start layering in your themes as early as possible, and while the degree to which this society hates human appearances will become much clearer later, the sooner it becomes apparent that it's significant, the better. You need to understand what would drive Dark Beast to, in a way, mutilate himself with his forced mutation - what drives him to such self-hatred of his body that he changes it completely?

(I'll also confess, I lifted some dialogue from the comic where Hank changes himself into the Beast for this fic, but altered it to fit Dark Beast instead. Instead of ego, it's fear. And I stole the unique narration because I just love the way this issue plays out and the way the story is told, the way that it frames Hank as this dumb kid making a mistake that might ruin his life forever. It felt appropriate.)

I also like to play with dashes in sentences. You can create such a sense of a mental lurch, of a pause to consider your thoughts, a sense of pregnancy and choosing your words carefully. It allows you to align what seems to just be narration from an omniscient writer, i.e. me, with the character. Suddenly, it's not me writing about Sinister's hand around Henry's neck, suddenly the narration has naturalistically become Henry's, coloured by his thoughts and feelings and emotions.

So, yeah! That's my commentary! Hope you enjoyed it!

[shyjusticewarrior]

[charlesoberonn]

[triaelf9]

I'm sure some people online could spend their time better

[sherlock-is-ace]

[dkettchen]

cursed construction core hi vis bra that came to me in a dream

In the dream I saw it in the window display of a hardware/DIY/trade shop, implying it was meant to be a practical garment designed for actual female constructions workers in a Female Armour level missed-the-brief attempt at gender inclusion

The practical support from the visible underwire combined with the hi vis implying it’s not meant to be worn as an undergarment, I just-

I blame my binge-reading ND Stevenson’s gender comics talking abt masculinity and femininity incl the one abt Victoria’s Secret lingerie yesterday for this monstrosity x’D

[slavhew]

this guy is so.

[lynsstrange]

my favorite thing has been scrolling through a good girl’s guide to murder reviews by large publications bc they all describe it as “light” “fun” and “classic” and it’s like. They really won’t know what hit them by season 3

[im-a-king-baby]

Hiii i loved ELYN so much.

I was hoping for any other tidbits/stories/scenes about Simon carrying the frog in the sock. i just wondered if it was like his comfort object or like the orange sweater etc. .That was one of my favorite scenes when Wille finds it

And/or “i wanted to wake up with you” i dont think i will ever forget that line.

💜 thank youuuu

Okay so I'm sorry this is so very late. Life has been a Lot 😅 hopefully folks are still interested in my ramblings!

<3 <S <3

"I wanted to wake up with you."

Fun fact: I almost cut this line. It was originally in the first draft where Simon never made the late-night-call that led everyone to Bjarstad and I was worried that after I'd made that change this line would put people off Simon, because at this point (in theory) Simon knows that Wilhelm had to get up because of what Simon did during the night so it's a bit unfair to Wilhelm. But then I figured Simon's in withdrawal, he's going to be resentful and frustrated and just because intellectually he knows it's his fault that doesn't mean he's not still having those feelings.

As far as the wanting goes, Simon is just dragging himself through life at the moment. He had this whole spiral of failing to sleep, eventually managed it by basically promising himself a future where he'd wake up and things would still be like they were when they went to bed, just the two of them avoiding the world. Plus withdrawal emotions, plus Candace showing up, the bubble is fully burst and this line is Simon tired and resentful and having to face it.

In case you're interested in how things change in editing, this is the first draft version of this moment (in this version Candace showed up basically the moment the queen left which would have been one hell of a coincidence).

“People always leave before I wake up. Maybe they think I’ll be less fun sober, probably they’re right.” “I wasn’t trying to leave you.” “Okay.” It’s the same tone of voice, accepting but not believing. “Are you going back to Stockholm with her?” He pushes himself off the wall, crossing into the kitchen and opening cupboards at random. It’s Friday morning. Wilhelm is due on TV at six PM. He’s supposed to be attending multiple prep meetings, seeing a stylish and a make-up artist before that. Minou is no doubt already at full panic stations. “I can stay if you want me to.” He stands up as Simon emerges from a cupboard with a half full bottle of vodka. “I can help you look for a lawyer. Or we could go for a walk.” Simon unscrews the bottle. “If you want to go, you can go.” The roar of an engine surges outside. Simon is closer to the window, and Wilhelm sees the moment his face shuts down, the inevitability of it, a moment before he sees Candace emerge from a sleek white car. “I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me,” Wilhelm says, picking at a conversation that’s already died as Simon braces his shoulders like a solider going into battle and tilts the bottle up to take three long swallows. Candace raps three times on the door. “Simme! Open this door right the fuck now.” Simon looks at Wilhelm over the bottle. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

x🐸🐸🐸x THE FROG x🐸🐸🐸x

After six hours of meetings a car comes to drive him to the hotel. Rachel tells him to order whatever he likes from room service and to be in the lobby for seven thirty the next morning and then he’s letting himself into a luxury hotel room. There’s a lounge, a bedroom, a bathroom with a full size bath and a separate shower with six different heads.

He takes the frog out of his bag and places it on the bedside table overlooking the pillow then pulls out his phone. He’d messaged Wilhelm when he arrived (Landed! Hopefully someone comes to pick me up!) and now he sees Wilhelm has texted three times since.

Good luck! La doesnt know whats hit it! Everything okay? I’m awake, no plans today whenever you want to call

Simon texts back: Sorry! Dumped straight into meetings all day. I’m kind of exhausted, can we do tomorrow?

Wilhelm: Of course! Jet lags a bitch. Sleep well, I love you xxx

Simon picks up the menu off the side but his stomach is still protesting the bagel it thinks it had in the middle of the night and he kicks off his trainers and his jeans and crawls into the mega bed.

After a moment, he reaches over and picks up the frog again, runs his thumb across the nose, and settles back down with it’s weight firm in his palm as he types: Love you toox

x🐸x

Candace tells him they’re going to Sweden in the same matter-of-fact voice she uses to tell him anything. The label won’t approve a third single. We have to crowdfund plane tickets. We can’t afford to keep the whole band, who can you live without? I’ve booked us a week in Stockholm and put word out to local news sites and venues, we’ll be taking the buses up there after Paris.

Simon reaches for his backpack on instinct, touches the front pocket where Wilhelm’s frog has been nestled since they left L.A. “Should I… I should call Wilhelm, right? Let him know?”

Candace glances at him over her iPad. “Sure,” she says. “Let me know if you need me to put him on the List.”

Simon leaves the meeting, twisting his phone over and over between his hands. They’re going to Sweden. For the first time since he flew out and it’s - he glances at his phone again - it’s September.

Fuck, it’s September. It’s September 2024, somehow. It’s been over a year since he left Sweden, since he last saw Wilhelm. He scrolls through the contacts on his phone but Wilhelm isn’t in there, of course Wilhelm isn’t in there, Simon got this phone back in L.A. and he hadn’t had time to transfer anything across. That had been last Christmas. Ten months ago and god, where had that time gone?

He could ask Candace to get Wilhelm’s number. That’s what she does, she sorts things. Wilhelm doesn’t answer the phone to unknown numbers. Obviously. But Simon could write a text or something. Hi, this is Simon. I know you said there was no way we could make it work because I was so busy all the time but I’m going to be in Sweden and I’ll still be busy all the time and you’re probably off in the army somewhere but -

It sounds stupid. It is stupid. There is no ‘but’, they don’t work and that has always been abundantly clear.

He unzips his backpack and the frog is there in it’s tiny golden crown, glitter still clinging to the paint because glitter is a bitch that can never be removed.

There’s a scratch across it’s nose, deep enough that Simon’s nail can catch against it. Hi Wilhelm, this is Simon, I know we haven’t talked for a while but I need to give you your frog back because you trusted me to keep one thing safe and I couldn’t even -

He scrolls back up his contacts to Guitar, Kevan and types: drinks?

His suitcase is at the edge of the room, surrounded by a scattering of costume pieces and toiletries. He digs through chains and glitter to find a pair of probably-clean socks and tucks the frog inside, where it’ll be safe.

His phone buzzes: party in 267

He just needs something to calm his nerves, to settle his stomach.

He’ll ask Candace to get the number tomorrow. Or, there’s a show tomorrow, next time he has a free minute.

He tucks the bundle down into the case and heads out of the room.

x🐸x

His case is still on the floor of his bedroom half full from tour. Technically he’s been back in L.A. for two months but unpacking was one of those ‘I’ll do it later’ things that has now somehow come full circle. He tugs out clothes, nudging them into the ever growing laundry for the cleaners to pick up once he’s gone.

His hand finds something solid and he pulls it out. Socks, with something inside, and his throat catches as he remembers September, Sweden. Everyone talking to him in Swedish, fans screaming 'jag älskar dig!' like it wasn’t… like…

Candace promised the next tour could skip it. And if he’s not going to Sweden, he can’t give the frog back, so there’s no point having it. He doesn’t need it.

He folds the socks around it a little tighter, stands up to push it into the back of his sock drawer, underneath everything else. It’ll be safer there.

Two days later the taxi is honking it’s horn outside as he runs back into the room, upends the whole drawer on the floor and grabs the wrapped bundle, shoving it into his pocket on his way out the door.

x🐸x

There’s a fresh bruise forming on his collarbone, a faded one on the side of his neck, a man whose name he doesn’t know snoring face down on the cheap polyester pillows.

He runs his thumb back and forth across the nose of the tiny frog statue, lets his head thump back against the wall to stare up at the ceiling and count down the hours until dawn.

[olessan]

live druid reaction

[queen-scribbles]

⭐star⭐ for the latest chapter of tlbt!! -em <3

Hmmm, let's see, some director's commentary for that chapter....

Originally, in the first draft, when Xaeryn and Briony ran out of the warehouse after Jarkyth, they got outside to find the Shepherds caught him with their exquisitely timed arrival. But then I thought about it and decided I liked it better with him getting away.

It makes more sense, I think, and I like him still being Out There as a nemesis for Ryn. :3 (I also like not having all the loose ends tied up in a neat little bow) I was able to keep and just rework almost all of the original dialogue from the Caught version, so I'm happy.

Syra was not supposed to be named Syra(pronounced Seer-ah, btw, rather than Sigh-rah). I had another name picked out, I knew I had written it down somewhere but could not FOR THE LIFE OF ME find it when I was writing the chapter. I knew it was from while Ryn was talking to Briony and Darius, I was so positive, I went back and looked on the backs of pages/in the margins for the scene with them all in Chandry's and could not find it, so I picked a new name. Found the original one last week while looking for my Chance's Real Name Ideas. It was with the Infodump Convo when she first met them, not the shop meeting. Oops. Oh well, that name got repurposed for a SWtOR toon.

I've been sitting on the Torch being thoret since chapter one. I was so excited to get to that reveal.

Also been sitting on Red swooping to the rescue pretty much since chapter one, the circumstances have just evolved as I settled on how things were going to play out. I just knew I was gonna give him a moment to be badass.

Xaeryn is 100% doing The Hand Flex as she walks out of the warehouse(and Red's doing it, too). I was mentally that JUST KISS Barbossa gif the entire time I was writing their final conversation, but unfortunately for some of us, Xaeryn is not the impulsive type and neither of them want to risk anything without talking first bc Friendship, and it's gonna make parts of hte next chapter so VERY VERY FUN to write

[positivelybeastly]

"The snuff he pulls from the box pulsates. There’s, of course, the requisite ground tobacco leaves - a Krakoan species, of course - but something … else, that the Beast has added. For kick. A biological incubator, a growth accelerant. Gene markers for every flavour of petalled oil sequencable.

“It says that the seed was planted. A thought formed. An idea gained purchase. Old beliefs fell by the wayside, replaced by newer, better ones - that is the march of progress, after all.”

“And what happened then, Woolf? Was the seed uprooted? Was it dug out with fervour? Was the infestation purged?”

The Beast smiled as he brought up the snuff to his nose.

“Why, no. It was left alone. It thrived in the dark, in the wet, rich soil. And the seed, well … a planted seed will grow.”

He inhaled.

A pleasant high fell upon him, and he fell back in his chair with a rumble. His eyes lidded, and he regarded Tess with almost a fond smile.

“Aren’t we friends, Woolf? Is there no friendlier thing to do than to die in front of you? It is such a very private affair, after all. I wouldn’t share this with just anyone.”

He laughs again, the rancorous, ugly sound that Tess has come to hear and recoil from, right before the noise stops. He gurgles and seizes, and clawed fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as he went ramrod straight. His mouth opens, and a warm yellow sunflower blooms on his tongue, from his tongue, is his tongue.

Golden petals flourish from his eyes. Stalks and roots spider out of his nose and across his jaw, forming a tight, woven net of vegetation from lip to ear. From his furry chest slowly sprouts a glimmering garden of fungus, tinged a soothing chartreuse, and it’s only as she looked close that she could see the roots were tinged blood red."

Ooooh, nice, nice, okay, we've got some stuff to dig into here! Well picked, Cereal.

"The snuff he pulls from the box pulsates. There’s, of course, the requisite ground tobacco leaves - a Krakoan species, of course - but something … else, that the Beast has added. For kick. A biological incubator, a growth accelerant. Gene markers for every flavour of petalled oil sequencable."

So, when you pulled me into your fucked up parasite verse - which, honestly, I consider myself lucky to have been, it's really forced me to up my game - I had to really stop and think about what Beast would be by this point in the Krakoan timeline. He's still there, so he clearly hasn't kicked off and done the fucked up shit that 616 evil Beast did, so what does he look like? And so I took a lot of inspiration from how the Sublime Beast from New X-Men's Here Comes Tomorrow storyline, down to using the caps. It's just so visually striking, and I love just how much of a truly insane, Grant Morrison super scientist he is.

But, we don't do straight cribbing here in Muffinsland. We remix. And the first thought I had was, well, Beast is obsessed with Krakoan biotech, and the way that Sublime Beast came about was because our good noodle Hank ingested Kick, a mutant drug that was actually a sentient bacteria in disguise, so why not have him be obsessed with perfecting insane narcotics? He has bodies to spare, he's wept because he has no more worlds to conquer, no-one invites him to their parties, so what does he do? Well, he does what 70s Hank did - and I'm convinced he did - he takes up drugs.

This is the way my brain works.

But yeah, I had to restrain myself from actually capitalising kick, since that wouldn't make sense. I did not, however, restrain myself from bolding Krakoan, because this version of Beast is such a born-again devotee to the new mutant nation that he has to take a special pride in the tobacco leaves being Krakoan.

“It says that the seed was planted. A thought formed. An idea gained purchase. Old beliefs fell by the wayside, replaced by newer, better ones - that is the march of progress, after all.” “And what happened then, Woolf? Was the seed uprooted? Was it dug out with fervour? Was the infestation purged?”

I love the idea of mutants becoming these twisted, near mythological figures in their growing indulgences and obscenities, and X-Force Beast is defined by lies, so I figured, hey, let's make him the god of deceit, let's position him as an underworld figure, a being of darkness. But just because you're a god of deceit doesn't mean you lie every time you speak, it means that you simply embody the ideal - and he does, he embodies the lie that Hank McCoy was doomed to be this, that he could never be anything but this given time. He lives that lie.

So now he's moved on from straight up lying all the time, to blending the lines between truth and lie, to making you question what you know or think to be true. That's a god of deceit right there. You immediately react negatively to the idea that this version of Beast is newer or better, than he embodies anything like positive progress - but then he hits you with, well, if I'm not better than I was, then why am I the way that I am?

Could you have stopped this from happening? Am I sick? Am I beyond saving? If I'm saveable, can you save me? If I'm not, would you like to believe the lie that I'm beyond saving? He constantly offers you new versions of the truth or the lie, muddying the pot, inking the ocean. That's true deceit.

“Why, no. It was left alone. It thrived in the dark, in the wet, rich soil. And the seed, well … a planted seed will grow.”

Will freely admit that I stole the line, a planted seed will grow, from the Evil Within video game, but in my defence, it was kinda wasted there, and it fits so perfectly with the garden paradise/plant horror aesthetic that characterises the seedy side of Krakoa and X-Force Beast. If Hank could be saved, he was left along. He thrived only in the dark, in the soil, and the seed grew.

“Aren’t we friends, Woolf? Is there no friendlier thing to do than to die in front of you? It is such a very private affair, after all. I wouldn’t share this with just anyone.” He laughs again, the rancorous, ugly sound that Tess has come to hear and recoil from, right before the noise stops.

Maybe there genuinely is a part of him that still cares for Tess, on some level. Enough that he wishes to terrify and disgust and scare her, but not hurt her. And he treats his body with such disdain that dying is no inconvenience, so mocking her with the idea that her being with him as he dies has any meaning is . . . is he trying to drive her away? Is he just being a cunt? Who knows!

"He gurgles and seizes, and clawed fingers dug into the armrests of the chair as he went ramrod straight. His mouth opens, and a warm yellow sunflower blooms on his tongue, from his tongue, is his tongue. Golden petals flourish from his eyes. Stalks and roots spider out of his nose and across his jaw, forming a tight, woven net of vegetation from lip to ear. From his furry chest slowly sprouts a glimmering garden of fungus, tinged a soothing chartreuse, and it’s only as she looked close that she could see the roots were tinged blood red."

I've already mentioned to you in DMs that a big inspiration for this was Last of Us' cordyceps zombies and the Silent Hill F trailer, which has a heavy plant/biological horror aesthetic, part which has its basis in the Japanese concept of Hananaki Disease. It also has its roots in the few bits of X-Force and Krakoan Beast's characterisation that I find interesting, namely his weaponisation of his own body, and the revelation that the entire society's economy, the miracle drugs, only exist because of his experiments on dead bodies, as revealed in Inferno.

So . . . the body as a flowerbed. This is Krakoa. This is what their thriving is based off of. The sacrifice of good mutants to feed the apparatuses that keep them safe and happy and fed (see also Hellions), and the use of unethical experiments to give them their independence. The nation is built on these foundations. It's a lovely flowerbed with roots fed by blood.

[opalescentidiot]