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youarejesting · 5 years

Text

Electronic Tonic

[SPARKS MASTERLIST]

Pairing: Robot!Jimin x Reader

Genre: Friendship, Comedy, Soft boy, Fluff, Implied Smut

Summary: You had a robot since you were in your late teens, upgrading his systems ever since you had a job. Now you run your own bar, while you make the drinks he serves. However, it seems some patrons can’t resist his charm and handsome features. After an incident that sends a shock down his systems, he seems to feel and think a little differently.

Announcement: I just hit 800+ followers!!! Thanks so much. This is a little something I wrote on my phone today and thought I would post.

Jimin was a robot. But not a very good one. At least that’s what he was told by the customers. He was a waiter at a bar. He would carry drinks across the floor and smile politely when he was called derogatory terms and they tried to touch him.

“Hey pretty boy, how much for a little extra service?” One guy shouted

“Good evening sir, I have many skills and programs used within this job. My job requirements include delivering drinks, chatting with customers, upselling, cleaning spills, and maintaining peace inside the bar” Jimin smiled wiping their table and taking empty cups before leaving.

“Robots like you are useless” he scoffed his friends chortling behind him.

“Hey, Chimmy baby” He looked over,all his programs seemed to slow down his taut belts and wires loosening some of the tension. His facial recognition matched you as his boss and owner who was in the friend's category. Your emotions were happy if your smile was anything to go by and he couldn’t help smiling back.

He didn’t like when others called him pet names, it made his programs go haywire in confusion, were they being nice or were they being manipulative. But when you called him terms of endearment it made his circuits tingle in a way he liked. He would love to feel that every day if he could.

“Order for table twenty one, we got a vodka sunrise, a fruit tingle and a margarita. It seems like a girls night if they try to keep you, call for me” You smiled as he loaded up his tray.

“Of course, Miss y/n”

“Chim, I told you not to call me that?”

“Would you prefer boss?”

“Just y/n (or nickname)” your laugh made him feel like, he was good like he wasn’t completely useless. He left to deliver the drinks and you watched him go. His moves more elegant than a human’s, it was so smooth and graceful, each carefully calculated and controlled. He was a strange robot, he was about 5’10 (as to not appear intimidating to customers) he had a lean muscular form.

He was a walking juxtaposition between a soft angelic boy and a demon boy. He had a beautiful androgynous face, his eyes were sultry and lips so plump, his jawline was sharp. When you looked at him, some angles had you breathless.

You knew he had trouble with customers. He was very charming as you had programmed him to be. He was also sassy, shy and yet confident, helpful and enticing, you had rules and your regulars understood not to mess with your employee. But newcomers often found out the hard way that he was not here for their pleasure.

Your bracelet buzzed. A device you created for him to call you when he was in trouble. You went to collect him from the she-wolves, arriving you saw something that stopped your heart. The female threw a drink in Jimin’s face, he glitched and shorted out. Gasping you grabbed him, taking out your phone to call the police. “I have your name and credit card details, you are going to pay for the damage you inflicted on my employee.”

“It’s just a robot, how much is he worth? three thousand, I will give you a hundred bucks that will cover any shitty wires I fried” she scoffed watching you carry the robot back to the bar. You grabbed your books and opened it to show her, his maintenance and insurance cover.

“This robot was hand-built by me, his net worth is eight million, parts of him are waterproof, and you had to get the part of him that isn’t, wet. If you have broken my eight million dollar employee you will be paying back every penny?”

“He touched me” she accused you could see she was grasping at straws, you pulled up his live recorded footage on your phone which would have saved before he was short-circuited and began playing it for her. You heard her propositioning him for sex multiple times and she went pale.

“That’s classified as sexual assault you are lucky he isn’t a human”

Jimin switched himself back on. He felt funny, he tried to send commands to move, and yet the system wasn’t responding. He wished he could open his eyes. When they did he was confused, the probability of him being able to move whilst his systems were down should have been damn near impossible.

“Miss y/n, it seems my waterproofing has been compromised, I will need some assistance” The patrons in the bar started leaving understanding that their night was over, due to this incident. Some of the regulars lead the newcomers out explaining that the woman had damaged staff and the bar would be shut down until it was resolved. It could take days or weeks.

“What you can’t do that we just got here?” The young men from earlier heckled, you turned to them eyes blaze ready to murder anyone who opposed you, they blanched “we are paying customers”

“Look just get the fuck out of the bar” Jimin growled you turned back shocked, he had just swore. Of course he knew the words but he was too shy and nice to ever use them.

Jimin felt unrestricted like he could do anything and the problem was he didn’t know what to do without his programs. He didn’t like seeing you upset angry or worried and though his facial readers were offline he somehow could tell how you felt. He didn’t have his programs to tell him how to resolve the situation but he wanted to hold you. The police arrived helping to clear everyone out and the woman gave her statement you gave them the live video footage.

Once they had left, you sat Jimin on the bar and unbuttoned his shirt, he seemed to breathe a little differently. He didn’t need to breathe but you added it as a feature to make him appear more human and life-like.

He was feeling all sorts of weird today, as you touched his body trying to open his chest panel. He didn’t understand but he wanted you to keep touching him, and he wanted to touch you as well. Whatever this was he knew his systems were deficient in it and at this moment it seemed detrimental for his maintenance to feel your hands on his silicone skin. He had touch sensors and they must have been damaged because every touch felt like he was growing a hundred degrees. Perhaps his cooling system had broken.

There was a reason he was eight million dollars you had been upgrading him since you got out of school. Spending days and money and energy making a best friend, a companion, an employee, someone you could always lean on when you needed it.

You tried to fix the damage, carrying him upstairs. His skeletal system was hollow titanium strong but light weight. Plugging him into your computer to perform some checks and maintenance it would tell you which systems were working and which needed to be replaced.

Plugging him in as he laid on the workbench watching you, you hit the power down button. Jimin’s eyes closed and you heard everything power down and back up. The errors were fixed with your maintenance programs and you had a few parts to tinker with before he was back to normal.

A few panels and receptors later you were almost done, you went to retro his face when you paused. You had ordered a new face piece the same exact look, if not more realistic. You didn’t want Jimin to appear different. He was your soulmate best friend and companion. The new silicone face ensured he would be entirely water proof. And safe from customers and when you plugged in the facial cords to the face panel you knew he would move so much more life like.

His eyes opened and he felt like he was working again but he felt different like he was limited, the access he had was gone and his weird thoughts and feelings were no more. He was just Jimin your robot, he frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“I am expressing the emotion sadness and it is unclear why. The source is undetected, why do I feel sad miss y/n? It’s hidden deep within me and makes me want to stay dominant and run binary alone, so many zero’s”

“Chimmy look at me, it’s okay to feel sad it’s human to feel things”

“But I am a robot?”

“Yes but I gave you emotions just like a human would feel in response to external stimuli, it was a bad night and you got hurt so you feel bad that is understandable”

“I am sad because I am not human” Jimin’s palm rested against your heart sensing the tiny flicks of life behind your rib cage. The structure of your bodies was almost identical, but he didn’t have this. He didn’t have a heart. “Why didn’t you make me a heart?”

“I did Jimin, you have the biggest heart. There is a reason why you are so expensive, right here, it doesn’t beat but it works the same. Thirty trillion transistors in a quadruple-chip processor they switch on and off rapidly sending signals around your body. And here is your brain I hand-coded programs that can run self-sufficient and you have a learning system so anything you don’t know you can learn and store yourself”

“Here is your stomach, we give you oil in here every morning remember, you love that, and beside that is your battery you sleep every night beside me chim”

“I want to feel love?” He whispered this small confession shocked you, “can you let me feel it program me to feel love, I watch people at the bar and they kiss and touch and I don’t feel it”

“Jimin, it’s not something I can program, love is the hardest emotion of them all and it’s shown through expression,” you said softly taking his hand his transistor switching faster behind his silicon chest piece.

“My facial recognition and emotional receptors have never seen you in love, can you not feel it either? Why do those people from the dramas you watch get to fall in love? It's all a lie.”

You had never seen Jimin act like this, it was as if he was a pubescent teen, throwing tantrums. Because life wasn’t fair. He grabbed your face in his cool smooth hands and pulled you forward crashing his lips to yours. You felt intoxicated. He tasted like the cinnamon alginate that he used to brush his ceramic teeth with every morning.

These silicone lips were soft and smooth feeling like silk brushing against yours. They were plush and mouldable and you lost yourself in the moment thinking he was real that this was something more than a robot. He was a robot. Feeling like you were a villain stealing this poor boy's virtue, you pulled away.

His hardware let out a long continuous beep, “I feel funny, I like it” he buzzed against you. He licked his lips, touching them, remembering the feeling of yours pressed there, it wasn’t the same. He wanted to kiss you again.

His hands ran down your neck to your waist scooping you up into his arms once more pulling you onto the work bench. Leaning in kissing you again. “Ji-” you tried to push him away but he was caught up kissing your lips and touching your warm skin. “Jimin stop we can’t?”

“Why?” He paused looking up at you confused “does it not feel nice to you?”

“It feels amazing chim it’s just” you could barely get words out around moans as he kissed your neck.

“These are the moans you told me about correct, you are feeling good right?”

One night you had taken the time to relieve your work stress, you thought Jimin had been charging. You later found out he charged rather quickly and would just lay there till morning every night.

You were busy bringing yourself to a beautiful ecstasy when you moaned particularly loudly. Jimin ‘woke’ alerted by your sound of assumed distress, you awkwardly explained to him the situation.

“I wasn’t in pain, its something people do?” “Why?” “Because it makes them feel good and when your stressed it helps” you tried to explain cheeks red and unable to look at him. “How?” “It’s hard to explain but it just releases tension and hormones that make you happy” saying it out loud it didn’t seem like you should be embarrassed about it.

“Can I see, or help?” “Uh no people don’t usually show other people unless they are lovers it’s usually something private” he nodded dropping the subject but a million questions raised in his head. He spent the evening researching online all his questions diving deeper and deeper into this strange phenomenon and the two of you never spoke of it again.

“It feels so good Jimin but we shouldn’t?”

“But I love you, we could be lovers” he smiled “online it says that some robots are sexual companions I could be that with you? I could be useful”

“Jimin I am not your master I am your friend, I will never force you to do anything you don’t want to do”

“But I want you and I want you to want me too”

“You don’t know that Chim, I programmed you to be helpful and loving and you think this is what you want but it’s just the programs”

“You said it yourself, I have a learning algorithm. This isn’t the programs not anymore” He blinked up at you placing his hand over your heart. “Tell me you don’t want this, I have a built-in lie detector, tell me you don’t want me”

“I can’t” when he determined you were speaking the truth he leaned forward placing a delicate kiss to your lips and asking for your permission.

Unable to hold back any more you said yes and he grabbed his shirt and then yours laying waste to your clothes.

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syndianites · 4 years

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The After; The Athar: Chapter One

Chapter 1/?

Chapter 1 [Here] - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3: This Chapter - Full Fic

Summary: Post Season 2, non-Mianitian Compliant. The crew finally land back into the world after the events of Ruxomar. That should be a good thing, right? But Wag is feeling the burden of everything that has happened to him, and he didn’t even get his magic back to boot.

It’s hard to be happy when life has been so shitty.

Relationships: Sparklington (end-game), Marthlington (temporarily), Sparkanite (Spark x Ianite) (past, mentioned), Motanite

Content Warnings: Death Mentions, Implied Depression, Implied PTSD, Self-Deprecation, Breaking up a Relationship (Marthlington)

AN: I’ve been working on this since September? of 2019! I have 5 chapters done and still going. I wanted to wait to post this until I was done with it, but my impatience has gotten the better of me.

@the-moon-pal I’m coming for your crown king >:)

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They’d made it home a couple weeks ago, to the land of Mianite. It’d been such a relief. They got to meet the rest of the alts, got to watch Dianite meet the other gods- and cringe at the tension that crackled between them- got to find all their homes again. For once, in the past-however-long, there was peace. They could relax.

So why did Wag feel like utter shit?

Right. Because he literally got the worst part of the deal.

He thought his powers would come back when they got home. And they did, for a few hours. Not the full range, but a lot of it. It felt good to be full of magic again. It felt like he was himself.

But then things started to fall apart. Martha grew distant. His powers fell away in fits and bursts. He realized that the rest of FyreUK had moved on after they made amends in Ruxomar. They found their way on. Without him.

Nothing was the same, he realized, as he spent more time around the place they had called ‘home.’

Spark had done what he did best: built a city. Well, more like a village. What had once been a place of buildings thrown about at random and mostly open plains was now sparsely populated. Neatly arranged shops and a few houses took up the space next to the beach. New people had even begun to show up.

Everything was changing around him, yet he was stuck holding onto the past. Holding onto his wizardhood, to his brotherhood, to a partner that was farther now than ever, and- worst of all- he was still holding onto the hope that everything would just… go back. To how it was.

To when he was important.

Well, like fuck is he was going to sit around and loathe his existence. He could at least try to do something. Swear to Athar, he wasn’t going to turn into a lump of depression just because he couldn’t handle change! He’d rather be a walking mass of depression! That way he could at least pretend he was being productive.

Potions or spellbooks? A question as old as time. Potions were a staple in his life. If there was one thing that would never leave him, it was his ability to make fucking potions. Like, fucking make potions. Not potions to help people fuck. On the other hand, the more he poured through spellbooks, the more likely he was to get closer to finding out how to get his powers back.

Maybe his powers left when FyreUK left, taking all the glory of Athar with it. But that was too terrible of a thought, so that got chucked in the ‘not-today-bitch’ bin. Which was a handy dandy mental bin that stored all of his worst problems.

He never could fit himself in it, though.

So potions it was.

Now that he was out of the business of magic, most of his money came from his potion making. He had made yet another little wizard- alchemist? Potion master?- tower. Plopped some advertisements in el Pueblo de Spark and took orders to pass the time. He had to fund his botany experiments somehow. Someone had to introduce weed into this world, that might as well be him.

If he was going down in history for something, that wasn’t ‘Word Renowned Wizard Extraordinaire’, then ‘The Guy who Made Weed’ would sure as hell work.

Wag pulled up his log of orders. Luck, luck, dexterity, healing, luck, love- yeah, those didn’t really work but he’d make it anyways-, strength, luck, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lots of luck. He could probably get away with making a batch or two of luck potions, then work through the rest.

He spared a glance outside. Spark’s little hut-square town was beginning to develop into a pleasant little fishing hole. Surprisingly- or not, given how deep the waters were nearby- the place was actually a fairly hot place for single fish to mingle. Warm waters, nice and deep, lots of cover, and not much human interference. Until now, anyway.

Either the fishermen were starting to get a fair amount of revenue going or they really needed help. Luck potions were among his most expensive. The ingredients were hard to acquire regardless of how you made it.

Rabbit’s foot? Morally and physically hard to get a hold of. Rainbow trout? Terribly rare. ‘Star-light Fruit’? Not even confirmed to exist.

His method was a little more straightforward. A butt load of four-leaf clovers, a tiny bit of alcohol, and a fuckton of glitter. Clovers for the magic, glitter for the look, and alcohol for the feeling of being lucky.

It was a very bullshit potion.

It took forever to find the clovers, let alone collect them.

Athar give him strength.

Giving one last look outside, he tucked his log book in his cloak. Then he went and rummaged through his chests.

Monotony here he comes.

~~~

Wag was halfway through his second batch of luck potions when a distant knock came from his door, followed by the sound of bells. If not for the bells he’d have ignored the knocking. With a stretch, he putzed down the stairs. The many flights of stairs.

He missed being able to make elevators.

Opening the door revealed one Mr. Sparklez, hair tousled but otherwise neatly groomed. He was relaxed, if not a little winded from his trek up the hill Wag claimed as his own.

Wag smiled. “Hey Sparklez, what brings you up to my tower of terror today? Here for a chat or a swanky danky potion?”

He gestured for Jordan to head inside and get comfortable, but the man waved him off. “Actually,” Jordan started, “I was wondering if you’d seen Martha? I needed to ask her something and I haven’t seen her all day. Figured she’d be with you.”

Ah, so Jordan wanted to find Martha.

Ouch.

Doing his best to ignore the squeeze in his chest, Wag kept his smile firmly in place. “No, I don’t think I have. She, uh.” He paused, going for a nonchalant shrug. “She doesn’t come around the tower all that often. I’d ask Spark instead. She tends to hang around him more. Her good ole pops and all, y’know. They do have a lot to catch up on.” Wag tried to ignore how weak his words sounded. He didn’t want it to sound weird that Martha wouldn’t come around, but instead he just sounded pathetic.

Great.

Jordan gave Wag an awkward smile, seemingly uncomfortable with the sad display. “Ah, alright. I’ll ask around for Spark.”

He turned to leave but caught himself before he was fully turned away. Jordan chewed on his words. “Are you-” His eyes swept over Wag. “How have you been? We don’t see you as much anymore. Other than Tom, I guess, but it's hard to get rid of Tom once he decides you’re friends, y’know?”

“I’ve been,” Wag wanted to laugh, but pushed through the sentence, “swell, thank you. I would get out more, but I’m always so busy potion making. Gotta pay the bills somehow.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t the exact truth, but he did spend a lot of time on potions.

Letting his shoulders settle, Jordan gave a small laugh. “Who would press a wizard to pay bills? Someone who wants to catch on fire, I’m sure.” He opted for a friendly smile. “If you ever want to hang out or something, let me know. I’ve been getting kind of bored between Spark telling me how to be a better champion of Ianite and living in an actual, peaceful society.”

Wag waved after Jordan as he began his descent. Yeah, a wizard. A frown tugged at his face while he shut the door.

A real fucking wizard.

~~~

Making potions was rather methodical. Each step took a certain amount of time, each item had certain effects, meshed certain ways with other items. It was like following a recipe, but with bigger consequences for messing up. Cooler results, though.

Wag had just finished melting down the clovers he’d gathered and extracting the essence- which is to say he lit it on fire after sprinkling a generous amount of blaze powder on it- when Jordan had stopped by. Which was convenient, since he needed to wait for the weird half-liquid half-slime to cool off enough to move it. The awkward potions, glitter, and alcohol were already prepped. Now all he needed to do was mix shit together.

Oh joy.

At the very least, it was satisfying to roll the clover essence into little balls to plop into an awkward potion and then watch them dissolve. The clover gave the essence a natural, healthy green color while the blaze powder, which clung to even the most thoroughly washed slime, gave it something of a yellow highlight. Golden glitter gets dumped in to make it feel like you were about to drink something special. Yes, the glitter was edible. No, most people didn’t realize he put glitter in this shit. Then the alcohol was for that background buzz. It was meant to dull the senses just enough to trick people into believing, wholeheartedly, in whatever god-forsaken abomination he just made.

Sorry. What ever divinely crafted, totally safe potion he’d just made.

Sure, he didn’t test it himself, but it seemed to work well enough for the people he gave it to. So where was the harm?

It was fine.

The next part was perhaps the most boring. And he’d spent all day yesterday crawling on the ground looking for four-leaf clovers.

Tagging and packaging. Writing names on slips of paper, tying them to the potion, putting it in a small, padded box to prevent any breaks. Rinse, repeat. It was annoying, wasted money, all that jazz, but it helped the look. Who wants to be handed a regular old potion, by hand, when you can get it in some majestic looking box to really add some sparkle to your magic?

Maybe Ruxomar rubbed off on him in a bad way.

In any case, the look was important, and by Athar was he going to make it look fucking fantastic.

Unfortunately, this task was also terribly, horribly monotonous. Worse yet, it left room for thinking. And thinking was Wag’s least favorite pastime since floating in the Void. Especially since floating in the Void.

It lead to him thinking deeply about himself and Athar knows that most of his life problems could be traced right back to that. His mistakes, his fuck ups, his shortcomings, all of it came back to him thinking way too hard about himself.

Gross.

Instead, he tried to run over potion recipes in his mind. Or any recipe, really. All the different ways to make a fire resistance potion when you don’t have magma cream. Counting how many potions used lemongrass. Figuring out what potions would make it more likely to catch fish. Literally anything. As long as it was potions, it was fine.

Not about himself, not about Athar, not about wizards, and not about… Martha.

Yeah, that last one would be a one hit k-o.

But now that his mind had touched on the subject, it dug in. Sunk it's claws into the delicate stability of his mind. Dramatic, he knows, but that’s how it felt. It was like the more he tried to get the thought out of his mind, the further it burrowed into him. Awful, painful, and not even worth the effort.

Martha… clearly didn’t care about him anymore. Or, well. He winced at the thought. She didn’t love him like she used to. If she, uh. Did in the first place. But this was old news. This was something he pondered after she seemed to avoid him like the plague, seemed to grimace when she looked over and saw him and not him.

Steve.

The name sat heavy in his head. They hadn’t meshed well, ‘specially where Martha was concerned. But they managed, for her, because they loved her.

Wag felt guilty, looking back on it now. For stealing their time together, for messing with their relationship. They hadn’t gotten to be together enough, had lost too much time before-

Yeah, he didn’t like thinking about Steve more than he didn’t like thinking about Martha. Wag didn’t feel like he deserved to think the name, let alone put himself up against his image. Steve was a hero. He rebelled against Helgrind in a cunning, intelligent way, he was selfless in more aspects than any of the heroes that appeared in Ruxomar, and he was the one to sacrifice the most. To sacrifice it all.

Where did Wag stand against that?

Honestly, it was no wonder Martha couldn’t stand to look at him. He was just a reminder of Steve, a reminder that she didn’t have Steve. That she had him instead.

Had she ever loved him?

That wasn’t the point. The point was that Martha was hurting, trying to pick up the pieces of what she left behind in Ruxomar. What she had lost. And Wag wasn’t doing anything to help. He was stuck up in his tower, making potions, trying to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

He should try to look for her.

But the last time he did, he got turned away. She was “catching up with her father.” She was “busy settling into the new world.” She was “trying to get a grip on her new goddesshood.”

Wag was persistent, but even he could get the hint.

By Athar, he got the hint. “I don’t want to see you.” “Don’t come near me.” “You can’t help me.”

He wondered if Spark was doing anything to help her or if he was also caught up in everything that had happened. From what he had learned about the man in Ruxomar, he was devoted to his wife. No, he gave everything for his wife. Learning she was dead after working up everything to see her again?

He had played it well. When he heard the news, Spark kept strong, only letting his tears show. If he had gone home later after parting with Martha, who had her own grief and guilt, crumbling on the inside no one would know. And if he had locked himself away and let everything loose, let himself break, none would be the wiser. But they could guess, they could give him a passing glance, a thoughtful frown.

Wag wondered if he still carried that grief around with him.

Spark had taken to trying to discipline Jordan to be a better champion of Ianite. It had made the man uncomfortable with getting told he could be a better follower and all. Or rather, having it implied that he wasn’t the best follower. Spark was stubborn in ‘training’ the champion of Ianite to be a full fledged follower.

Still, Jordan didn’t appreciate the sentiment.

Wag understood. Having the husband of the very goddess you watched die get on your case about being a better follower? When the crushing weight of guilt hadn’t fully let off your shoulders? He wondered if Spark hadn’t taken to coaching Jordan to make himself feel better, to remind himself that he would have kept Ianite safe, that he would have fixed the world before it broke out from under them.

It sounded like torture.

But it helped settle Wag. Call him selfish, but he felt better knowing other people had real problems, real grief, to deal with. Sure, Wag had his hang up with Martha. Yeah, he had his issues with being-a-wizard-yet-not. But he wasn’t as close to neck deep as Spark was. Like Martha was.

He wished belittling his problems made them feel less suffocating.

Martha. Martha was still pushing him away. And he was letting her. What did that say about him? About their relationship?

A sigh heaved out of his chest. It was like someone stuck a large rock right in his rib cage, tucked neatly between his lungs. Hard, heavy, and an all around burden. Potions. He needed to think about potions.

His hands betrayed him with a subtle shake. How many names did he have left to write? How many boxes did he have left to pack? Fuck if he knew. He had to keep counting, to find a way to wrap up all his issues, his panic, his fear, into a nice little package and tuck it away like a forgotten gift.

Athar help me, Wag tried to control his thoughts, I might drive myself insane by the end of the year.

As if on cue, another knock at his door broke his thoughts. He tried not to feel relieved to rush away from his potion packaging. He was fine, cool as a cucumber.

Throwing open the door, he came face to face with his second visitor of the day. Tom.

Tom was standing in front of his door almost uncertainly, like he wasn’t quite sure why or how he got there. He took one sweep over Wag’s unhidden face and a determined, focus look set in on his own.

“We,” Tom looped his arm around Wag’s in a sudden movement, “are going out somewhere. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.”

Eyebrows shooting up, Wag let himself be dragged from his house with an aborted motion to close the door behind him. He mournfully watched his door stay ajar. Hopefully no one else ventured up the hill today, otherwise he might be down a few potions.

“Why?” Wag turned his attention back to Tom, who was resolute in his intention of pulling Wag away to Athar knows where.

A grin was shot in his direction. “You look like you need to get out of the house. Also, I’m real fuckin’ bored and you’re clearly in need of some company.”

A wry smile snuck on Wag’s face. “Oh lucky me. We should get some tea, live up to our trademark.”

Tom nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s hit town. Fuck it up. Flaunt our hero-ness and get shit faced.”

“Let’s not get shit faced, and especially not get kicked out of town for making a ruckus.” Wag fondly rolled his eyes. “I do quite like living here and it’d be a shame to have to follow you around to make sure you don’t die.”

Tom gave a mocked offended gasp, free hand coming up to his forehead as he leaned away. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I’d never die if I didn’t live in a community. I’m a rogue, don’t you know.” He sniffed. “I can easily hold my own in the dangerous wilds.”

“Without anyone to pester and annoy?”

“I can pester anything!”

Wag bit his lip to stop a laugh. Tom always brought such energy with him. It was refreshing. Maybe he was right, he just needed some company.

He wouldn’t say that to his face, though.

“I suppose so,” Wag continued, “You are rather persistent. I bet you could annoy the sun into setting early.”

“Nah, I’d blow that fucker up instead.” Tom winked, snuggled back up to Wag, effectively trapping his arm. “I still think we should get shit faced. Drink our sorrows into the drain, throw them up another day.”

Wag mock gagged. “I’d rather keep them down the drain, thank you. Besides, what a waste of alcohol. If I’m drinking, I’m drinking to keep it down. Not!” He quickly cut Tom off, “That I want to go out drinking.” He eyed the sky, giving a disapproving look to Tom when he saw that it was still early afternoon. “No one should be getting drunk before the sun touches the horizon.”

With a pout, Tom leaned into Wag’s side. “Lame. I suppose,” he drew out the word, “we could go get some good old fashioned tea. Call it a pre-game without the game.”

Wag rolled his eyes. He wasn’t looking to out game his issues. That wasn’t a solution. It’d just make him turn into a sad drunk and give him a headache in the morning.

This is why he needed weed back.

But also, he didn’t want to develop another problem. Gotta keep it clean. For now.

Tom still had his own plans, alcohol or no alcohol. “I find when I’m feeling down that doing something batshit stupid makes me feel better. We should go fishing with our bare hands- no, with only our teeth- and no shirt on. Attract ladies and gents to us alike. Are they looking at our finely chiseled chests or our daring courage? Who’s to say.”

“You are far from chiseled my friend. Try soft.” Wag poked Tom in the stomach jokingly. “And who said that I’m feeling down?”

“Hey!” Tom swatted his hand away. “I’ll have you know I’m more ripped than you’ll ever be!” He huffed, squeezing Wag’s arm. They walked in silence for a moment, now upon the town. After wandering the street for a second, Tom spoke again, quieter. “I had this feeling.” Wag eyes him. “It was weird. My gut was telling me to check in on you. And then when you opened the door it was written on your face. Even I’m not dumb enough to miss that.”

Wag heard the unspoken I was worried carried in Tom’s words. Talk about soft. He squeezed Tom’s arm back. “Oh wow, a gut feeling?” He teased lightly, “I think it was just you missing my magical presence. It is hard to go too long without seeing me.” If only that were true. “But I’m here now, and we can go do something absolutely stupid, just for you.”

They share a smile, a quiet thank you floating between them.

Tom gets a glint in his eyes. “Does this mean we can go catch fish with our bare hands?”

“I suppose so.” Wag drawled. “How else are we going to show off our toned figures?”

That got him a laugh, one concerningly maniacal, and he was dragged between houses.

Yeah, he might regret this.

Tom turned and gave him a smile that was all teeth and no common sense. He paused next to the shore, a little ways off from the docks. Shucking his clothes, one Tom Syndicate stood proudly in his underwear, unconcerned about the effect of sunlight on zombified skin. People gave them a look of distaste.

Oh, he was definitely going to regret this.

~~~

Soggy was one way to describe how Wag felt. Wet as shit was another. All in all, he was rather pleased with himself and the rather large, shiny fish sitting in his lap. The fish which so happened to be a fair amount larger than Tom’s.

“Oh fuck you.” Tom spluttered around a mouthful of fish, laying down an arm’s length away. He had gathered quite an amount of fish, a solid number for catching something with your mouth alone. None of them were that large. In fact, most were an average, if not slightly below, size.

Wag eyed the pile smugly. He may have only caught two, but damn if he didn’t go big.

“Well, it seems that I’ve caught myself a winner.” He tried not to look too pleased. The look on Tom’s face told him he failed.

Tom scoffed, letting the fish fall to the sandy floor with a wet fwop. “You got lucky! Clearly, quantity wins the game here. Sure, you caught one big, old, dumb motherfucker, but I caught a dozen other dumbass fish! I should get the win.”

“Wasn’t size the goal here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before Tom could fire back, a voice from behind interrupted him. “I think the two fools sitting in their underwear soaked to the bone are both losers.”

Wag tilted his head back to see Tucker standing with his hands in his pockets, back slouched, and an easy smile on his face, standing just where the sand turned to grass. Next to him was one lovely fox lady, Sonja herself, and one Sparkle butt, Jordan.

Nice to see the gang all here.

Tom sat up. “How dare you! I’ll have you know we are the best fishers on the island!”

Tucker raised a single eyebrow. “Really now? Are all the other fishers out at sea today?”

“Well excuse you, Mr. Boner. I’ll have you know we caught all of this,” Tom sweeps his arm across their score. “And I think that’s quite the haul.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Fuck you.”

Tucker snickered, moving closer to poke his foot into Tom’s side. “That’s what I thought.”

Wag, meanwhile, was carefully moving his prize to the side so he could stand up. Brushing the sand off himself, he exchanged a smile with Sonja and a nod with Jordan. Sonja gave him a good natured headshake. “And here I thought you were smarter than this.”

Jordan’s eyes trailed down Wag’s chest before flittering away. “Right down to your boxers? Tom must have gotten you good.”

“Well, I was fairly set on getting a nice cup of tea and walking across the beach, hand in hand like real lovers, but Tom was far more intent to go all macho and catch fish with his mouth alone.” Wag leaned in with a hand against his mouth to give a stage whisper. “Between you and me, I think he’s trying to step up his oral game.” He winked.

Jordan groaned, giving Wag what he thought to be a rather dramatic eye roll. That wasn’t even the worst he had to offer, and he’d given him such an easy setup! Sonja waggled her eyebrows and giggled when Tom butted in. “It’ll never be as good as yours dear.” He batted his eyelashes mock innocently.

The group burst into laughter. Tucker stepped closer, swinging an arm around his vaguely damp shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to see you out and about man. It’s been a hot second. Almost thought you’d drank the wrong potion and kicked it or something.”

Wag nodded seriously. “Quite the real possibility. Why, just yesterday I almost drank real glitter! The kind you’re not supposed to eat.”

“Been there,” Sonja added, “I thought I was going to die when I did. Just gave me a very colorful trip to the bathroom.”

Tom grinned as he moved to elbow Jordan in the side. “I bet our good ole Captain here wouldn’t know the difference. How else did he get his namesake, right Mr. Sparkley Butt?”

“Hardy har,” Jordan gave Tom a fondly disgusted look. “The name’s Captain Sparklez, that ‘namesake’ came from you giving me a stupid nickname.”

They fell into more chatter, giving Tom and Wag the time to put their clothes back on, Tom not caring that he was still wet as he put his suit back on, while Wag just slung his cloak over himself. No point in putting pants on over wet underwear.

The group, all now clothed to some extent, began to wander back towards town. Wag was more than content to listen to Tom ramble on. He would get interrupted by Tucker when he said something ‘incredibly stupid’ and, more rarely, by Jordan, who would correct some technical thing that Tom clearly did not give a shit about.

Sonja drifted next to him, giving Wag a conspiratorial smile. “You’re looking mighty fine in just a robe and boxers. Is this the bedroom Wag special? Or is that sans boxers?”

“The bedroom Wag special is whatever you want it to be.” He winked. “It’s magic all around.”

They exchanged a laugh, falling silent again.

Wag knew that wasn’t what Sonja really wanted to talk about.

She looked back at him, a warm look in her eyes. “It’s nice. To see you out. Been a while, y’know?” Sonja stretched her arms out in front of her. “It really has been a bit since we’ve talked. And since you’ve left the house. But honestly?” Her tail swishes behind her. “I could have made a few more treks up that damn mountain myself.”

Shaking his head, Wag elbowed her side lightly. “It is a fairly tall hill, but I think mountain is a bit of an overstatement.” It was, in fact, a bitch of a climb, but Wag didn’t think it was that bad. He’d put the tower just on the other side of the Glowstone Forest, across from the Priest’s house. (What was it called again? Forest of the Void? Abyss Forest? Obsidian Trees? Yeah, he didn’t know or care).

Left unsaid was a ‘That’s okay, you don’t have to go out of your way’.

He received an eye roll. “Please, the only trek worse than that is up to where Tucker’s first house was. I was so happy when we moved it down the mountain. Well, into.”

It’s no trouble, her words left hanging, I don’t mind.

Wag huffed. How dare she be considerate. “You know what’s worse than a trek up a mountain? A trek up a mountain to get some rare flower, only to be spited by the universe and have not a single flower growing up there. Honestly, I could use some help from someone so used to climbing mountains.” A smirk pulled at his face. “Or maybe just send someone up there for me.”

We could always hang out when I’m playing master botanist. If you’d like.

Sonja smiled at him, but couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Aw, did you skip leg day? Have some chicken legs over there? That’s alright, I’m sure someone,” she tilts her head, eyes sweeping past the buildings around them, “would be willing. Get a nice little lackey so you can rest your old bones at home and complain about how the cold makes your joints stiff.”

“How dare you,” Wag sniffed, hand held up to his heart. “I’ll have you know, my joints are just fine in the cold! Some of us just aren’t made of the cold, little miss fox.”

Sonja, ever so mature, stuck her tongue out at him.

They kept up some conversation, occasionally stopping to listen in to whatever Tom was saying. Wag, for a moment, realized that he had missed this. Missed them. That even though he wanted to avoid all the new things in this world, he’d always have his friends.

A quiet, hopeless voice asked if they’d leave him too.

~~~

There was nothing quite like hiking up a hill, in only your boxers, a little buzzed, during the night time. The pure amount of skeletons that had sniffed around looking for a cheap shot alone was bad enough, but the fact that his legs already hurt from struggling to fish with just his mouth without drowning? Yeah, it felt more like he was climbing up a mountain that was near vertical.

Fuck gravity.

A pit of warmth had settled in his chest a couple hours ago. Whether it was the alcohol that Tucker, of all people, had got the group into drinking or just the effect of being with friends for a while, Wag felt content. Not a common feeling in recent times. It was nice.

Really nice.

Upon reaching his door, his mind scrambled to figure out why it was left slightly open. He shrugged. As long as nothing was missing or stolen, he didn’t really care.

He made his way inside- making sure to actually close the door behind him- and wandered over to the stairs. Ah, his mortal enemy. Between being a wizard way back when and the magic rampant in Ruxomar, he had gotten way too used to avoiding stairs. Now it was a chore to move up and down the tower. But his bed was upstairs and he was not sleeping on the crappy couch he shoved into the lobby for guests or customers again.

So stairs it was.

By the time he got halfway up the stairs, he wanted to quit. Why, in Athar’s name, did he put his room on the third highest level? Stupidity, that’s why. The view was so not worth it.

When he actually made it up to the correct floor, he pushed the door to his room open, chucked his clothes to one side, and collapsed in bed. Now this, this was worth it. Soft, plush, warm, and very much without skeletons.

The less arrows being shot at him the better.

A soft chuckle caught his attention. Or rather, killed the peace he had wrapped around himself mere hours earlier.

He didn’t move. Not because he was scared. No, he knew who was in his room. He just wanted to pretend, for a moment, like this was something he was used to.

Like coming home to his lover being home wouldn’t surprise him.

The bed dipped beside him and his robed and boxer-ed glory. A hand ran through his hair. Wag tried not to tense.

“Seems like you had a good night out.” Her voice was like silk, soft and pleasant on his ears. “Hopefully they didn’t hassle you too much.”

Wag breathed. His chest was tight, emotion punching at his ribs. “Yeah,” he said, “It was nice to have some time with them again.”

All of this felt so forgein, now. To have her here. Was she here? Or did he drink more than he had originally thought. Shit.

Martha scratched his head. “I do have to say, I’m surprised that you actually left the tower. You’ve been holed up here for so long I thought I’d have to drag you out.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Or maybe he was imagining it. His head was a mess and he wasn’t quite sure what he was making up and what was real.

It was kind of pathetic.

He laughed. “Yeah, Tom showed up and dragged me out. Not complaining though, I had a lot of fun. It was nice to take off from work. Making potions gets boring.”

So did sitting in your own depressing thoughts, but that was more exhausting than boring.

“Oh,” Wag turned his head to face Martha, looking up at her. The darkness made her hair stand out. It looked like a halo around her face, bringing out her lovely lilac eyes. She was just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. But there was something heavy in her eyes that she tried to wipe away when his own reached her. “Jordan was looking for you earlier. Did he ever find you?”

Martha blinked and the heaviness was gone. Ish. He knew it was there. Somewhere.

“Ah, no.” She frowned. “I’ll have to see what he needs tomorrow.”

He nodded. To be honest, Wag wasn’t convinced Martha was actually sitting here with him. Which was kind of sad. Very sad.

“I can come with, if you’d like,” Wag rushed out, trying not to sound desperate. “We haven’t had much time together, which is understandable with your dad being around and all the stuff you need to do. And, y’know, it’d be nice to walk with you for a bit.”

Oh, he sounded so desperate.

Yikes.

A smile graced Martha’s lips. “Sure, I’d love that.” Wag let out a breath. “We’ll take a stroll, get a nice scenic view of the beach as we go, call it a date-” She cut off. The heaviness came back to her eyes. Wag knew what she was thinking. Who she was thinking about.

It hurt.

“I’m going to go take a shower before getting ready for bed. You can go ahead and sleep, if you’d like. I know you’ve had a long day and you’re probably tired. Don’t force yourself for me.” Martha stood as she said this, fingers trailing in his hair. Then she left.

Reluctantly, Wag got up to do just that. Changed his boxers and hung up his cloak. Buried himself back into bed, under the covers.

Yeah. It’d be a date.

~~~

Martha didn’t like to get up early. Neither did Wag. Normally, this lead to them sleepily cuddling until one felt so inspired as to get up. Normally.

Ever since the group returned to the land of Mianite, Martha didn’t sleep as well. Between nightmares, being a fledgling goddess, and the… absence of certain people, she found herself waking earlier and earlier.

Wag had his fair share of sleep troubles. Where sleep troubles stopped Martha from sleeping as much, it led to Wag sleeping more. The less he slept the more exhausted he was. The more exhausted he was the more he slept. It was a vicious cycle and actually the reason Wag didn’t leave the house as much.

Nonetheless, both found themselves getting ready to leave just after dawn. Martha moved like last night didn’t end awkward and uncomfortable. Bright, cheerful, and painfully affectionate with Wag. Like she hadn’t been avoiding him for the better part of their stay here.

The worst part was that this wasn’t the first time she came back like nothing was wrong. It was almost like she could tell when he was starting to doubt their relationship. Except, he was constantly doubting their relationship. Even when things had been going well. But this time, it was like she knew when he was thinking about how much of a relationship they didn’t have.

Which was concerning if she actually knew what he thought.

Wag, on the other hand, moved like a zombie. Tired, groggy, and barely awake. The picture of early morning beauty. It wasn’t far off from how he used to act, but now it was like someone had chained weights to his feet.

Damn, he was tired as shit.

Martha had set about making some breakfast from the little food he had. Some eggs, some- thankfully not spoiled- fruit, and milk. Wag was pretty sure he didn’t have milk, but he wasn’t going to question it. She was the more magical of the two, now, so it was within reason that she could get milk in the few minutes he’d lagged behind her in getting out of bed.

He, on the other hand, was on the task of making coffee. Coffee was something of a luxury here, since it was so new to the land. It wasn’t grown naturally on the island and Wag wasn’t sure if it was imported from some far off place or if it had been introduced by the earlier dimension hoppers that still hung around. Spark, for sure, seemed to run on the stuff.

That didn’t really matter to Wag, though. He had a plant of it in his garden, for ease of access, but more importantly to see if it could be used to help crossbreed weed into existence. No far off land had procured the plant yet, so he would still strive to be the maker of weed.

Not the best plan in the world, but that wouldn’t matter once he actually made the plant.

He really shouldn’t be encouraging substance abuse.

Surely, coffee would wake him up. Then he could go on a walk with Martha and do that thing they seemed to do where they avoided those topics and pretended like everything was fine. And maybe, just maybe, they’d enjoy the conversation. Maybe they’d feel something again, feel whole for the brief moment where they let themselves forget about the person who was missing, the person that clearly held more place in Martha’s heart for it to have torn so much when he-

Maybe Wag would get his shit together and let things die between them.

Maybe he’d decide that fighting an uphill battle wasn’t worth it.

For now, though, he was content to pretend things were the same. It was better than being entirely, wholly alone. And, deep in his heart, he still loved her. So, so much.

Enough that he knew it would hurt no matter what he did.

They chatted over the food Martha cooked. She complemented his coffee, the beans from the plant he owned, and he told her that the cooking is just as good as it’d always been.

Neither mentioned that it was usually Steve, not either of them, that did the cooking.

They tossed little affections at each other with ease. Like it was second nature. A brush of hands, a quick smile, a peck on the cheek. It was like a dance. As though they were trying to make a show of how much they still cared, how much nothing had changed despite the fact that everything had changed.

Hands loosely held together, they left the house as a unit, holding up a conversation with ease. If either of them tripped up in their speech as they avoided that topic or this word, neither called each other out for it. For all that everything was off and wrong, they made it work. They found a way to shove a cube into a round hole.

Whether it was because they wanted it to work so bad or because the hole was a giant chasm with space for miles was up to debate.

The beach was calm in the early morning. Fishers were stocking up their ships to start up on their daily trip, tightening a rope here, making space there. Few people walked about the town, the kids either asleep or getting hassled to eat breakfast. With so few people out, it felt like they were on the outskirts of life, just the two of them. Like viewing the world through a painting.

That illusion was helped by the sheer height of Jordan’s tree. It was still there, despite the damage it had received when Tom got to it. If he looked closely, Wag could see the remains of burn marks and grooves held in the thick bark. He had heard that, after the heroes had left, Ianite had nursed the tree back to life in honor of her lost champion.

He ignored the fact that Ianite had sent them into the void in the first place.

Wag himself had left before that, called on to help the heroes that he had watched over as a distant wizard. Even now, he wondered if it had been worth it. To lose everything because he was asked to. In his weakest moments, he wondered if it hadn’t been the gods’ way of throwing him out.

That thought hurt the most out of everything in his life and he never let it linger.

It wasn’t long before they made it to the base of the hill that Jordan’s tree- sorry, Jerry’s Tree- sat beside. They weren’t that close to getting inside yet, but it was a milestone.

As they climbed the hill, massive roots stretching out below them, Wag started up some conversation about the different species of trees. He never once mentioned apple trees. It was part of his botany, after all, and important to keep track of. The types of trees, not apple trees. Apple trees were just one of those topics and therefore something they made an unspoken agreement not to talk about.

He pondered, during his ramble, that Martha could have just flown up the tree. She could do that, after all. Wag couldn’t. Not anymore. The worst part was that he’d help build this tree, or, well, make it. Way back then. That was a sore spot to think about, but even still he was in awe of the tree. Not because of the fact that he's contributed to it- no, he had felt a sense of pride for that a long time ago. Rather, because of how it’d regrown.

Ianite’s gentle hand had turned it from merely a large, enchanting tree to a behemoth of divine wonder. Its branches had spread further, with more room between them and the tips reaching towards the heavens. The leaves had shaped up and gotten fuller, surely the size of a full-grown adult by now. Fireflies could be seen lazily hovering about clusters of leaves, giving the tree a pleasant, natural lighting.

Many more platforms and walkways had been built, new buildings having been added on top of that. They stretched from one end to the other. The most daring teased the edge of a branch, hung firmly along the length of it. The walkways were either long rope bridges made of braided vines that shimmered a faint purple or ramps made and reinforced by the same wood the tree was made of, the bottom featuring fancy swirls alongside the support beams.

Other vines, flora, and bushes lined the branches and platforms. Though they looked like they were leeching off the tree at first, a closer inspection- granted you were on the tree to get an inspection- showed they were delicately wrapped around the branches and sneakily planted in hidden pots for a more natural look. The flowers ranged from all sorts of purples- fitting. Buddleias enclosed doorways, Hyacinthus were wound along lanterns strung along pathways, and an abundance of Jacaranda could be found wherever space was made for flora.

The more he looked the more nature there was to see, the more connecting walkways there were strung along, the more everything there was. It felt like the whole world was home under the canopy.

The tree had gone from the house of a solitary man to a city of nature.

It didn’t feel like the same tree.

Wag pushed aside the nagging thought that it was better than anything he could have ever made. Ianite was a full fledged goddess, Wag was- had been- a mere wizard with the idea of godhood in his head. What he made had been incredible for mortal standards, and was still incredible for the standards he had held himself to. It would do no good to compare himself to Ianite, especially when all she had done was repair what was already there.

As they made their way up to the crest of the hill, following the path from the town to the tree as it curled around Jordan’s old home, Wag spared a glance at the birch and quartz house. It was simple, sleek and minimal. It suited Jordan. Of course, Jordan himself had made it, so why wouldn’t it?

Compared to Jerry’s Tree, though, it seemed rather dull and insignificant.

Actually.

Wag spared a closer look at the smaller home. It looked lived in. A frown pulled at his lips. Was someone living there? Who else, other than Jordan, would?

Martha had picked up the conversation now, adding in details about trees that she had seen in her travels long ago, ones he’d never have had the chance to see. There were many interesting species, some magical in the same sense as Silverwoods, some as plain as a simple oak tree, but all more than enough to satiate Wag’s desire to know more. His mind kept getting pulled back to the Casa de Sparklez, though.

A thought struck him, one he’d had just moments before.

Jerry’s Tree looked and felt so different, now that Ianite had tended to it. Like it was a different tree. Did Jordan think the same? Did it feel less like home, after being away for so long and having watched it burn?

Was Jordan living in his older house because the tree felt so forgein?

Martha was going on about a beautiful tree known for the lights its seeds shone, especially during the night hours. It really sounded like a sight to behold. More than that, the gentle, awed look on Martha’s face pulled at Wag’s heart.

Take care of her.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. Wag decided not to mention what he had just noticed. That was Jordan’s business, not his.

Martha was looking at him now, a small, shy smile on her lips. Wag felt like if he said the wrong thing it’d disappear in an instant. Like Martha was used to having her interests pushed aside, or used to pushing them aside herself when people didn’t seem to care about what she was saying.

Take care of her.

He offered a smile back, a genuine one. He really did love her. More than anything, he wanted to keep loving her. But something told him it wouldn’t work. That what they had had started to decay sometime around the end of Ruxomar, around when he left.

No, around when Martha almost became Mrs. a instead of a Ms.

Bitterness clutched at Wag’s heart. For all the love he held for her, he wondered, again and again, if she held the same. If she ever held the same, if she even held something close to the same.

Take care of her.

Looking up at Jerry’s Tree, Wag remembered what it used to be. He remembered watching it burn, the pain he had felt in seeing his hard work get tarnished, in seeing a friend’s home wither away.

Now, though, it was different. Not quite a home, anymore, but reborn. Alive. And maybe, in the future, it’d be a home again, or maybe not. Maybe it needed to burn for it to become what it was now. Jordan would have never built it up to this, but Ianite had.

Maybe that was the secret, Wag pondered. Maybe you had to let things burn to be able to build them up stronger.

He looked at Martha again, at the softness in her face and the hardness in her eyes. His heart pulled in so many directions. Love, anguish, love, despair, love, hurt, love love love.

Yeah, he was going to have to let this relationship burn.

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zhonglisimper · 4 years

Text

`` the city of unity `` | dystopia au

⇢ 1,028 words of a flash-forward several millennia of a godforsaken world.

⇢ Contains profanity, dead animals, implications of rotting corpses, mentions and/or implications of police corruption (bribery).

⇢ Any similarities between characters, timelines and places is purely coincidental. This is nothing but a work of fiction. All rights reserved to Mihoyo Inc. for the canon characters, titles and locations to be named.

⇢ Cr. to Liam Wong for the banner used below. Retrieved from https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/5Lnn9Lg48jv1RvvvLnKKrJK/neon-dreamland-atmospheric-photographs-of-tokyo-after-dark

OTHER NOTES:

will be cross-posted on my AO3 once i finally set that account up. ();u;)

oh shit school will be coming in like 30 hours at the date of posting on tumblr so i can’t promise i’ll post regularly, especially since i signed up for this one event,, fuck

another reason i can’t promise i could even continue with this is because 1) this was very impulsive and was actually an attempt for me to go to sleep at 4-5am 2) i didn’t plan far into this, the last thing i worked on were the characters and even then i doubt i’m finished bc i’m not satisfied bye

also this doesn’t strictly follow the official lore, whether from the manga or not. the official lore definitely did serve as a basis, but there might be statements in the narrative that are deviated from the official facts and that is perfectly intentional! damn right i beta read but only bc i had to write everything from my broken phone to my laptop manually

Only the dead archons from long ago know what millennia it currently is.

In any case, speaking from the perspective of a human being currently reading this - presumably one from a distant present, considering the methods I have undertaken to preserve this: my envisioning.

I’m sure the overbearing gods and goddesses in Celestia will strike at me with a snap, which is why I am in a hurry to note as much detail of my revelation as possible. I am no priest, nor chieftain of a tribe, but a mere... dreamer? Or delusional? Perhaps both; regardless, my identity is but a trivial matter, now and in the future.

Let me begin by the strong iron gates I envision myself stumbling upon every weekend. The gates are tall and proud, and thicker than Madame Lisa’s bookshelves. It is evident that this holy gate is meant to keep away the unwanted. Which is understandable - for the world beyond the gate, once one looks behind themselves, is nothing but the never-ending void. It is dark and will certainly suck the life and joy out of someone.

Perhaps that is why so many outcasts line themselves up to get to enter the sacred City of Unity, the only cluster of civilization left standing after the Interstellar War. Surely, the darkness beyond the walls of the thriving city are all because of the towering mountains of garbage that take up all the light. The dusty haze of unknown substances wafting in the already-putrid air don’t aid in letting sunlight in either.

This, my lieges, is the price the denizens of Teyvat shall pay for being blinded by words and revelations of Celestia and its power-hungry archons. They (the archons) are just as much of tyrants as the Lawrence Clan was. You’d think that they had it all - beauty, grace, brains and power - so what was there to thirst for, especially in the mortal realm?

Much to my dismay, even I, who is but a mere mortal, cannot answer such a complex thought.

Nevertheless, the city appears to be very futuristic; there are significant technological and scientific advances. Alchemy is but a dead folklore, and the mysterious denizens have evolved to “cyberpunk” technology. Visions have also become nothing but dead folklore. After all, what on Earth would any of the denizens need a Vision for when cutting-edge technology was at their feet, giving them the power to alter their godforsaken appearances? Their physical and mental capabilities? Their senses? It gave that damned civilization a sense of security, a sense of wealth and elegance and power, regardless of social status.

But tyranny has revived itself once more; the ever-so-humble wishes of the Lord Barbatos have blown away with any sanity left during the War. All of the Geo Archon’s hard labor into shaping the lands into precise perfection have gone down the drain, and Fontaine’s famously just system has evaporated into nothingness. Tyranny hails in the City of Unity, and the wealthiest of entrepreneurs take their holy seats. For in the City of Unity, it is widely believed (and affirmed, even a drunken fool can see the facts and statistics) that the said city would certainly not be where it is now - eternal florescent lights, advanced machinery, unparalleled science and evolutionary bio-alchemy that not even dear Miss Sucrose can match - without the diligence and intellect of the leading entrepreneurs. After all, they are the ones that funded the scientists who discovered and created all the blessed machinery that the city so desperately depends on like a drug and its pusher. Like an alcoholic and his wine.

Because of their seemingly endless wealth and sheer social power, the military turn a blind eye to the graft and corruption of the famed entrepreneurs. Even when a brave soul speaks up with the appropriate evidence, that evidence will never be able to compare to the five lawyers hard at work for their single client.

And it’s not like Miss Angelica, founder and chief of Honey Entertainment, can indulge on the secrets of her fellow business partners, for everyone in the business realm has something to say about everyone. One misstep could lead to the ultimate downfall of any entrepreneur, with all of them equally knowing the way the general public despises them. They are arrogant, but not ignorant - no good businessman would get where the holy seven are now if ignorance to the general public’s opinions blazed in their cores.

But who are they (the general public) to comment, the rich ponder, when it’s all thanks to their ‘philanthropy’ that the rats below their aristocratic asses have food to eat in the first place.

And at the end of the day, the rats below can only hope to make it another rainy day in the ever-raining city as they snake through the cramped alleyways that still hold the scent of cigarettes, beer and cup noodles, all combined in one nauseating scent altogether. And goodness, it’s been two weeks, haven’t the exterminators stopped by yet? The corpses of the actual rats are beginning to pile over the dark corners behind the trash cans. Do they not get paid enough? Probably not. No one in the general public ever does.

Mora is still a thing of the future. No one has ever bothered to change its name, despite the God of Mora dead during this future. Honestly, it’s not that they still want to honor him, rather, nobody cares. In this world, money is money, and it’s only the value and profiting this money long money that matters. Where it came from, how it came to be, what the fuck others call it is irrelevant. Besides, it’s not like the entrepreneurs could think of a more fascinating title befitting for the very currency that feeds their mouths and provides all their pleasures.

And although Mora had been a name for eons, its value had, for once, been disputed. ‘Tis but a powerful curse laid upon the techy city by the entrepreneurs. Still, Mora has, fortunately, been the only currency the City of Unity uses. Even if they’ve converted to online banking and “ATM.”

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sanoiro · 5 years

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Lucifer 5x03 - ¡Diablo! - Spoilers & Speculation

Warning! There is always a possibility that certain scenes might have been mixed up under their non-respective episodes.

Written By: Mike Kosta

Directed By: Claudia Yarm

Mike Costa has written/co-written the episodes:

1x10 - Pops

2x09 - Homewrecker

2x15 - Deceptive Little Parasite

3x07/2x21 - Off the Record

3x13 - Til Death Do Us Part

4x05 - Expire Erect

5x03 - ¡Diablo!

Cast: Tom Ellis as Lucifer, Lauren German as Chloe, DB Woodside as Amenadiel, Lesley-Ann Brandt as Maze, Kevin Alejandro as Dan, Scarlett Estevez as Trixie, Rachael Harris as Linda Martin and Aimee Garcia as Ella.

Season 4 Recurring Characters: None Officially Announced Guest Cast:

Dan Andreiu...Skeezy Motel Tenant

Jacob Chattman...Detective Doofus

Ernesto Chaverri...Police officer

Brianne Davis...Detective Dancer

Genevieve Gauss...Officer Cacuzza

Alex Quijano...Diablo

Behind The Scenes Videos:

youtube

Locations

Chloe’s Apartment - Maze & Trixie (There is all a Trixe-Lucifer scene)

Precinct - Dan, Lucifer and Ella. -Before the bracelets-

Pink Motel - Not a murder scene but I believe they question the owner as he is listed in the cast.

Warner Brothers Stars Hallow Set Area - Open Stages:

1) The Murder Scene - Dan, Ella, Lucifer & Chloe

2) Stage III - The room with the clowns. Prior to Halloween WB had built a clown maze for tourists and its workers although they didn’t the usual annual Halloween attraction but it was not the same one. However, I believe it may have been used for this episode nonetheless.

3) Stage Set - Hell set used as a Tv Series Prop although it acts as our actual Hell as well.

When an episode is shot at the lot it means it costs less money to be made still what it saved them on money it cost them on 1-2 days.

This episode is called from us “Diablo: The Tv Series Episode” and we call it that because that’s what it is. There is no AU here but something like 3x02 where you see our leads investigating a case which is related to a show. Now that show is VERY similar to Lucifer. Extremely so but we will talk about that in a bit.

First of all the main themes of this episode is Lucifer’s ongoing instability but also a problem that seems to tie him eventually to Dan. Dan’s issue in my opinion started either in the first episode but is gradually getting worse so in 5x03 Lucifer provides a temporary solution. But is that him or Amenadiel? As we know Chloe and Amenadiel work together for a bit in this episode.

As always in order to unravel this episode we will rely on the case of the week. Where does the murder takes place? At the WB lot actually, so be prepared to see it again like you did back in 3x26 yet that is a different area.

^Aimee on the left

They also shot at night at Stars Hallow Set.

We have some photos from Josh with Aimee and Kevin where you can clearly see that Dan does not wear the bracelet yet. Same goes with Lucifer’s bracelet at the beginning of the episode neither of them wears it and that makes sense.

Let’s talk now about the victim and the theme of the episode again. For some reason the murder is connected to a television show called ‘Diablo’. We know that because there are several hints and downright spoilers about that like the social media posts of some people which will not be posted for obvious reasons.

Diablo as a show has EVERYTHING Lucifer’s life has. Scratch that everything Lucifer as a show had in its first season down right to the… same poster. Yep!

So when I say everything what do I mean? I mean that there are the following characters who take the place of our main leads:

Lucifer = Diablo

Chloe Dacker = Detective Dancer

Maze = Blaze (male)

Dan Espinoza aka Det. Douche = Det. Dooffus

We do not know who else is featured but I would expect Linda, perhaps Trixie and Amenadiel to have their own counterparts.

^ Dancer was originally Chloe’s surname in the Kapinos Pilot do not be surprised is you see Linda being played by a Kim...

Yet who would do that? Who would make a Tv Show that resembles so much Lucifer’s life? My first thought was Ella but then I found a BTS about an Alex Lopez and I assumed he was one of her brothers taking advantage of her workalike stories. Although that may be true then how could anyone know how the actual Hell looks like?

One day I got a glimpse of a woman which I think was Inbar on set. Additionally, at that time, Inbar Lavi posted a few S4 photos which seemed a bit peculiar. Therefore if Inbar was on set and is the person who made the tv series Diablo we are in for a hoot!

If that happens it means that Eve has found her way and she might eventually find her way back to Maze’s life in P2. Of course, that’s a speculation but we can always hope!

The next question is why would our writers do that to Lucifer? Why would they put him through an experience that shows him his work and partnership so obviously to him through a series like Diablo? As we know Lucifer is a bit thick sometimes so for all the characters it would be nice to acknowledge certain dynamics as seen from a show that is, of course, a caricature of the actual actors.

I mean Diablo has frozen tips, Det. Doofus looks downright clueless and Blaze… Blaze is the equivalent of Maze but big… Congrats Eve! If that was you, of course, you made Maze looking butch!

So in that episode, Lucifer needs to come face to face with the facade of his life in Hell but also on Earth and I believe it’s time for him for another breakthrough. The same goes for the rest of the leads.

I stand by the opinion I posted on Twitter that 5x03 as far as I see it is a wake-up call that no matter for how long you keep a costume & a mask on that's not who you are. It's also a point where Lucifer's work & partnership may finally be unveiled for what they truly are. All that while they search for a solution. Yet for what solution do I talk about?

Something is wrong with Dan perhaps even Lucifer but I do believe the origin of the problem is Dan due to Lucifer’s actions back in 5x01. If I had to guess I would say that they need a way to make sure Dan is kept alive that a life source is sustained and that requires a link which I suppose is the bracelet. But that it’s just a temporary solution, the permanent one will come in 5x08 and will have its own consequences!

In any case we do have Lucifer and Chloe going to the Pink Motel for some questioning but then… then it seems like Lucifer disappears for a bit. If my speculation is correct during his recovery the events of 5x04 will happen but that will be explored in the next S&S!

The Pink Hotel is considered a landmark btw.

Let’s say now that half of the episode is almost gone perhaps less, 15 min? And we have Lucifer out of commission or perhaps they search with Dan for what they need. That leads to two different groups working and I do not mean that it will be necessary on the case.

^LUX as Hell it even has poles...

*cough* priest collard male strippers*

On one hand, you have Lucifer and Dan. When Kelly Clarkson visited the penthouse aside from several cool parts of that episode like LUX that is now called HELL in the Diablo series we also had a glimpse of a book…

A book? Again? You may lament like Mum at the end of 2x17. Well yes, a book… an ancient book which it may or may not be related to this episode although I will speculate that it is. For me, that book reminded me the Book of Destiny…

In order to understand what that means I have put some strips from the comics here for you. Lucifer and that book or to put it right Destiny, one of the Endless have had a disagreement about that book before but it didn’t work out that well…

The Book of Destiny as Sandman’s and Lucifer’s comics inform us:

“It contains your life. Every detail of your life. Everything that has happened to you. Everything that will happen one day. The things you have forgotten (ALERT on that one). The things you do not believe.”

Yet the writers have never used a source from the comics without altering it so beware of that. It may be something that is based on that book or carries certain attributes of it.

So let’s assume that that book helps them create the bracelets and thus Dan remains alive for the time being. Also, does that mean that Dan will be exposed to the Devilish truth? If this speculation is correct I do not see how he can avoid it. At the same time learning all about Mom and most importantly Charlotte will do him A LOT of good. Yes, he has been healing in his own terms but whoever has lost someone knows that the pain never goes away it always nags you so I think it will make that pain a bit duller.

^Do not forget that Dan’s office area is full of motivation quotes... Do not be surprised if he is in therapy again in s5...

While Lucifer and Dan are preoccupied we have Chloe and Amenadiel working together I believe somewhat on the case or trying to help Dan. Who knows it might even be Eve - again IF she appears in that episode - who will give the temporary solution they need.

What intrigues me in DB’s photo from that episode is the official one that was released at ET where he is in front of a clown. It looks like a weird scary place, a theme park perhaps or even a set…

We do know that there were two crews and that scenes of the Diablo episode were requiring two crews, I mean would you let an actor near your 40K camera? Nope!

So the circus/clown scene is what interests me most as I have no idea what is going on there… What I do know is that it corresponds with Ella’s shirt. Ella’s shirt has a clown on and it says ‘Big Clown’ and something other underneath yet on the murder scene she wears a light blue shirt.

Additional Info

We have a Scene at the Penthouse which may be connected with the scene of Maze and Trixie at the Decker Household. However! Scarlett almost always shoots more than one episode so it is possible that it might be connected to 5x04. Still we take it as if it is for 5x03.

There is a fight scene with Maze and Lucifer against some people. Still, Ellis’ stuntman also filled in for a different role this time so that might have been for the Diablo show.

Finally, we did have Linda on set and there was a photo from within her house. Scenes from Linda’s house or her office during her sessions with Lucifer are rare so most of the time we do not know they are happening.

A background extra who played a police officer in this episode made it to an actor with lines. Of course now we know that she will have that role up to 5x08 yet we do not know if she will survive the serial killer ordeal of the last two episodes of S5 Part 1…

Additional bts of that episode including the Kelly Clarkson photos etc.

^Did you see Marcus’ honourary tablet?

^And of course the mermaid is back at her rightful place. It was there also in S4 but appeared only at a bts with Inbar. :)

#lucifer spoilers #lucifer speculation #Sanoiro S&S #lucifer 5x03 #Lucifer 5x03 ¡Diablo!#Lucifer Season 5 #Lucifer Season 5 Part 1

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incarnateirony · 5 years

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Terms and Conditioning and Meanings

Okay, so it’s something a lot of people heard me bang on about several times over the last few years, but recently I found a thread (x) by yet another lit professor -- this one in another fandom.

I’m sure some people will choose to reactively and malignly pick at parts of what they say without reading the heart of their body of work, in a blazing display of self-blind irony, but well-- I went off on my usual tear I go on ‘round these parts and unsurprisingly they went through and liked every single one while QTing other Typical Fandom Asshats to shoot them down, so let’s roll here.

I’ll start with the TLDR edition but then break down the actual content behind a cut -- because this? This is something this fandom DESPERATELY NEEDS TO UNDERSTAND THE DIFFERENCES OF, and how they DO and DON’T relate.

CODING = CONSCIOUS CHOICE OF CONSTRUCTION BY AUTHOR SUBTEXT = THEMATIC RESONANCE THROUGH MOST OF OR THE ENTIRE WORK THAT EMBOLDENS THE TALE INTERPRETATION = LITERALLY WHATEVER YOU WANT BUT STRONGER IF YOU KNOW WHAT THE OTHER 2 ARE AND WHERE THEY ARE. THANKS KIDS DEATH OF THE AUTHOR = NOT AN EXCUSE FOR EIGHTH-ASSED READINGS CANON = WHAT EXISTS WITHIN A WORK, OR AN AGREED UPON BODY OF ACCEPTED WORKS (episodes, books, etc not part of the ecclesiastical body) NO, it is not a MAGIC WORD for “NOW THEY KISSED” and there are MANY FORMS OF WHAT IS CANON WITHIN AN ACCEPTED BODY OF WORK. QUEERBAIT = VERY FEW OF THESE THINGS AND YET CAN BE ALL OF THESE THINGS AND THIS IS THE MOST BUSTED WORD Y’ALL HAVE FUCKING RUINED.

(Edit: I saw someone reblog this with “really aggressive in an offputting way” before a tag of “but I agree” so I’ma put this out here: Yeah. It fucking is. Because this fandom is fucking exhausting. And I am tired. Of having to fucking repeat things. That are literal common sense. In a fandom that insists on flushing common sense. Of otherwise intelligent people sending themselves into destructive spirals. Of even friends losing friends to people sliding off into bitter pits these problems lead to. So if you’re someone that favors common sense, maybe you actually should feel this frustration in your soul. The lit folks reblogging this with commentary so far seem to.)

To quote the linked OP and give credit where credit is due for resparking this conversation in my mind and realizing I haven’t said this for a long time and new followers may not know, even if this is familiar to like 90% of people who follow me -- but I feel they touched aptly on parts I haven’t even really done more than brush over.

queer-coding is quite sinister in a lot of ways (though can be employed subversively to great effect) but also very interesting! studies have shown that children who like or identify with queer-coded villains are more likely to be lgbt, even if they don't realise what's going on.

during the hays era it was mostly a way to show that a villain was bad (because gay = evil), but it could also be a way for closeted queer creators to sneak lgbt representation into their work, which is why so many queer-coded villains are so damn *likeable*.

what's also interesting is that lgbt creators would sometimes explicitly *straight-code* their villains - gaston from disney's beauty and the beast is a great example of this. highly recommend that you read up on the story of his creation!

all of which is to say: queer-coding has a meaning, it's not the same as queer-*baiting*, and it DEFINITELY isn't the same as "I'm gonna read this character as gay because I wanna imagine him as gay" - the name for that is fanon, and some trek fans

there are lots of academic works on the history of queer-coding if you want to spend an afternoon down a google scholar rabbit hole! just, you know. terms have meanings.

that's the thing. coding literally is intentional. what you're talking about is an alternate or resistant reading, or a world-context-centred critical approach.

you're right that it's got nothing to do with representation, but unlike semiotics, which is text-centred but may or may not rely on reading into intentional authorial choices, queer-coding refers specifically to an authorial choice. it's a defined term.

I didn't just take AP and honours english. I *taught* AP and honours english. for y e a r s.

--by @jaythenerdkid who I just accidentally found the tumblr of by preparing to make a twitter link but I checked and it’s the same person.

-------------

Okay so let’s pick through this a little bit before people start spinning this up in their heads.

TO START: QUEER CODING

I’ve seen people say “This character has villain attributes or dark attributes ergo he is queer coded.” That is absolutely not the way to apply this history, this works in reverse. As handled here, villains were either malignly codified to make queer characters evil and/or were then used as a slip-in of representation. A villain being a villain is not in fact itself an actual queer coding point. A dark history is not itself a queer coding point. Addiction stories are not themselves a queer coding point. In fact, trying to apply itself in this order is like BLAZINGLY homophobic and gross as hell and if you’re doing this, you should stop now. Yes, I’ve seen this.

I fucking promise you Gaston wasn’t consciously “queer coded” in being a villain, being a villain does not give him a Magic Gay Point.

Are we good on that point? Have we figured out the direction these Magic Gay Points fly in and don’t? Cool. If the author consciously added elements that will harmonize with a straight audience as queer to make them seem bad, that’s malignant queer coding; if an author consciously added elements that will harmonize with a queer audience to make them somehow familiar or likable, that is subversive queer coding.

An example of subversive queer coding: In the Legend of Korra, the creators had limitations on what the network would allow them to do. Later, they confirmed their intent was a WLW couple being portrayed at the end, but it hovers in the area of a hand hold that people can unfortunately choose to negotiate away into bestest friends despite all the other story flags for them along the way.

People have/can/will call queerbait about this. In this case, this is not queerbait. This is attempted representation to bypass restrictions and is not malign, but are authors doing their best to give their queer audience something, anything, in the case of it. Yes, it was post-air acknowledgment but it was what they were goddamn trying to give us gays out here. It’s not hiding their gays on the creator’s part -- it’s hiding their gays on the network’s part -- WHICH IS A STEP A LOT OF PEOPLE GET VERY CONFUSED ABOUT.

Hell, just because *one* show or property on a specific channel even allows X Amount Of Gay in it doesn’t even mean they’ll allow their other properties that amount of gay every time, and can and WILL step in and block creators. It happens even on premium networks like HBO or Starz. Because they have their ideas of what the demographic they dump a bunch of marketing money into is okay with, half-educated and half massive fiery balls of projection from whatever old white dude is reviewing the data. So no, never just bank on “well X network made the Gay Bar exactly This Tall To Ride here so all their other shows can be Exactly This Gay.” -- you do that, you’re gonna set yourself up for a FUCKTON of disappointment.

Hell, LGBT aren’t even treated equally to other LGBT. Bi men have like 1/3 the representation of bi women because media is held in a largely male gaze corporately and well, bi women are sexy to straight guys, give them some of that lesbian action. But oh, nono, don’t put the bi dudes near their network, no homo. If you drape a rainbow boa on this lamp post though we’ll let you have a gay guy run around that is there to make other characters uncomfortable as a stereotype, that’s fine. LITERALLY do *NOT* simply assume for *ANY REASON* that because one kind of LGBT person cleared on one show that others will too, there’s so many ways that drops through the floor.

That small aside about network bullshittery handled, let’s get back to the terms.

Negative queer coding I can think of with things like, I dunno. Jafar. Honestly very few LGBT people will actively associate with most of these attributes because a great wealth of them are attributes in the eyes of straight creators villainizing gay people, rather than gay people making gay people that just happen to be villains, and this distinction *DOES MATTER.* The long, snaky body -- the coy, venomous tone, embellished gestures; I mean sure, some people are like that, and that’s fine, you be you, but it’s a stereotype most try to shed rather than play into. It’s not the sum of who we are but put into the wrong creator’s hands, they *make* that the perceivable sum of who we are, + villainy.

But queer coding CAN be suggestively used to paint positive role models in situations they can’t necessarily be written as Overtly Gay, and the list of those reasons is unfortunately Very Long. But they are always things that are active choice, and your interpretation of what is Active Choice is not the same as Proven Active Choice.

For example: “The wallpaper was green and blue in this scene so Dean is thinking of Castiel even if he isn’t saying it.” Okay. We’re gonna go to Subtext and Interpretation later, but summarily: no. Hell, maybe it even is, but that’s a huge vault you actually have to exorbitantly prove and you can’t just say “but movie lighting theory” because I promise Dean = Green Cas = Blue isn’t general lighting theory.

An alternate example: “Bobo Berens, the first LGBT author on Supernatural, affirmed that Castiel was written in place of Colette, Cain’s wife, in Dean’s mirrored life; this is recurring symbolism and reflects often in Beren’s work, wherein his first episode showrunner Carver opted them to act as jilted lovers, and made a vast wash of content involving bold partnership ideals such as ‘at the altar’, ‘secret admirer’, and more that mysteriously hit the cutting room floor, but resonates very loudly through several directly connected seasons and all future work by Berens such as classic romantic partnership gifts and ideas [mixtape, heart connect, etc].”

This is simultaneously coding and subtext. We could frankly make 200 page dissertations about this chain of text -- and most of us already have -- that doesn’t require loudly extrapolating interpretation of external elements or single unrelated lines.

“But subtext is just QUEERBAIT. It’s JUST SUBTEXT, it’s NOT CANON.”

Okay honey let me stop you right there. This is like the most common bad hot take in this fucking fandom. Like every part of it is bad but everybody kind of strings it together into one big Ball of Bad.

Subtext is, summarily, a hidden body of text that is felt in the work. Beyond Who You Want To Be Gay, subtext is a lot of things. Subtext is the value of humanity above all powers and principalities, in Supernatural. And there’s all kinds of other subtext. Whenever you see someone blink and have black eyes in SPN without them saying “I’m a demon” and you know they’re a demon, that’s... kind of subtext too. I mean, we know textually demons have black eyes, but nothing ever said only demons have black eyes. So what if I wanted to say it’s the ghost of big bird? It’s MY INTERPRETATION and MY INTERPRETATION IS VALID TOO.

Shit you can even cobble together half assed unrelated extrapolations--some demons have yellow eyes and Jack had yellow eyes so he wasn’t a demon so clearly not all black eyes are demons and uh... the angel blade kills lots of things, that black eyed thing still wasn’t a demon.

See how easy it is to absolutely BULLSHIT around it with decontextualized BULLSHIT? It almost passes at a glance until held up to the smallest bit of scrutiny and following episodes.

Okay, so look, “It’s my interpretation, and my interpretation is valid” is only as far as it holds up soundly to *you.* As long as it is truly valid to *you.* And that doesn’t mean big brave faces you put on For The Twitter Stan Wars because you don’t want to lose digital clout when the newest episode falls through and blows your entire house of cards out of the water because you weren’t reading the actual subtext being hewn into the story by the authors -- or even forming a resilient resistant read of your own subtext that can hold -- but once that interpretation leaves your mouth to try to bounce off of other people’s viewpoints, you’re now indirectly challenging their viewpoint with theirs. If you stay in your cabal where you think the spirit of big bird has black eyes, and never subtweet or @ or whatever anybody else about this Hot Take, that’s fine, just don’t be surprised when you’re left defending that to whatever followers you pulled into the Big Bird Cabal.

Or you all sit in angry silence with each other and then start helicopter swinging at the writers for ruining The Spirit Of Big Bird that was never fucking there. Because you’re trying to apply patchy, unstable, and generally very piss poorly founded readings to a still released work.

So THAT lead in shoved off to the side about interpretation and keeping your interpretation to yourself if you don’t want to be challenged by far more solid interpretations, Because that’s how content discussion works,

SUBTEXT IS OFTEN A FORMULATIVE PART OF CANON, ESPECIALLY IF IT IS CODED, WHETHER WE ARE TALKING QUEER CODING OR ANY OTHER KIND OF CODING.

Subtext is a thematic undercurrent. Subtext is the unspoken soul of a piece, what lies in the blank space between the lines, but not just whatever you take the lines to be. If you sit down and write a lit paper, you’re gonna have to explain where you pulled your subtext out of.

You can either go the “Death of the Author” route where you summarily erase any commentary ever made and build your own, but you still need to be able to read the sum of the text and present what it all is. And most importantly you can’t just present what it’s not. If your entire reading of a work is trying to explain away common sense bullshit and it ends up reading like All Work No Play Makes Johnny Dull Boy because you had to build 82 nonlinear explanations around what you don’t want, and those all lead to nowhere, that professor is going to flunk the shit out of you. And if you use Death of an Author DEFINITELY don’t simultaneously try to appeal to authority with other quotes convenient to you.

Not Wanting something to Be So and going completely over the river and through the woods in completely disjointed intentionally maladapted readings of refusal doesn’t mean you’ve found subtext, it means you’ve chosen to make a reading -- an interpretation -- that is not really thematically sound with the body of work but for whatever reason, you’ve chosen to make that the meaning it has to *you.* And that’s fine. Unless you’re trying to impress a professor. Or jousting your opinion off of somebody else that isn’t doing cartwheels around the content to avoid the parts they don’t like (and get mad about it later.)

Removing all genuine thematic subtext and disregarding it from any part of the canon discussion of a piece is, however, devastating and essentially rips out the foundation of a piece. This has become all the more common as junk TV gets junkier and continues to appeal to the lowest common denominator that need to be reminded that 2+2=4 every three episodes before they accept that 2+2=4 in their respective canon universe, because otherwise they’ll claim it’s just subtext or someone else’s opinion that it equals 4.

And that’s not what these words mean and I am left eternally climbing up walls, because in this fandom, like... subtext, interpretation, coding, queerbait have all become one amorphous blob that just gets hurled around like four stuck together balls of Gak at a grade school party and just seeing where they splatter.

It is entirely possible for content to be subtextual and canon, if it is thematically resonant with the piece and a loud and fundamental part of its storytelling that it can not operate without acknowledging. Discussion of queer content aside, there’s a lot of shit this applies to. There’s a certain sense of good faith most authors put in their readers/viewers/whatever that people will have an fundamental understanding of the spirit of a work they’re conveying. This good faith amount varies depending on their projected demographic, but let me assure you, if your respective creator essentially has the characters stop and do “today I learned” narratives, or interruption explanation inserts over everything, there’s one of two reasons: 1. It’s a literal parody/comedy 2. It’s either geared for kids or they think you’re all fucking idiots.

As I don’t tend to watch parody, comedy, or kid shows, I tend to favor shows that don’t feel the need to handhold me through every instance of the show. Because I am not nor do I appreciate being treated like an idiot.

Subtext is a valuable part of canon as long as we are talking by virtue of “coding” not “random unfounded interpretation.”

Now, to the topic of queer coding, is it fundamentally gratifying to our primitive lizard brain survival instinct if we see characters kiss or whatever your personal landmark for gratification is? I mean, sure. Does the romance leading up to the kiss absolutely not matter at all until the kiss, or was that early state of subtext, dance, and non-consummation itself a valid romantic journey?

Because honestly this is something I feel current LGBT dialogue is missing. We’re so wounded from being caught in the subtext veil that we want confirmation, but everybody wants to skip the journey to the sweet stuff. I’m not saying every story needs to be a years long slow burn, but y’all. You know how we talk about het romance being boring as fuck because it’s like “dude/chick look at each other and they fuck and now they’re insufferable, hahahah is this what het culture is like is this what they call romance what kind of standards--”? Yeah, we’re rapidly snowplowing towards that.

I’m also not saying quick confirmation is bad either. There’s shows and stories where even pre-confirmed LGBT couples are GREAT to see, just existing in the population. Not every story needs to be THE grand romance, or THE great coming out adventure, some can have already had their adventures just like the Totally Het Neighbors Next Door and that’s... fine. That’s great, even.

But we are approaching Absolute Bottom Barrel Trash Content at terminal velocity, mostly just being exploited and monetized by corporations that are virtue signaling us to give at best sub-par turnout. The amount of currently airing shows with quality queer content can probably be counted on your two hands.QED there’s hundreds of shows, thousands depending on which networks you’re counting in your numbers. Off the top of my head, Legends of Tomorrow has a fabulously queer cast that Just Is without being defined only by having a partner nor being a rainbow lamp with a sticky note of plot directions.

But we are also signaling creators that it’s no longer safe *to* give us gradual, slow burns, or genuine romance either. And we’re ALSO signaling creators -- INCLUDING QUEER CREATORS -- that it is no longer safe to make subtextual or coded content.

“Well good!” you probably say.

NO, THIS IS BAD, THIS IS REALLY, REALLY BAD.

Because while you may live in a fantasy universe where X Network had Y show exactly This Gay To Ride, it’s in blatant disregard of inconsistent landmarks and limbo sticks different shows, creators, and products have to go through, and some people in some shows are trying REALLY REALLY HARD to give you resonant queer content and you’re just shitting all over them and yelling that it’s queerbait.

I mean, queerbait is the idea that someone is giving queer content without intent to follow through and generally to exploit a queer audience. The problem is, all queerbait accusations are launched in default bad faith. Some of that bad faith is earned. Some of it is not. Sometimes there’s a lesbian with a network executive breathing down her neck that just wants to let her girls be together so she has them hold hands, even if she knows The Straights will talk it away as best friends, no matter how many canonically romantic storylines they’ve wedged into the subtext through loudly recognizable tropes.

Queerbait is a VERY DANGEROUS CARD and MUST BE USED WITH EXTREME CAUTION. Because depending on the longevity of what you’re crowing about, without understanding of what’s going on beyond the production veil, you can very easily even get creatives and creators hard shut down on a network level for wanting to protect the product. I’m sure you think “make it gay!” is the one answer to that, but no, it isn’t always, not depending on what the old white guy network exec I mentioned a while ago has in his papers about what or who he interprets pulls his income and what they like via demographics or inconsistent marketing test groups.

That’s not to say never call out queerbait, but the internet desperately needs to be more conscious about when and where they fling it around. What if Korra fans started horrifically screeching about queerbait and blasting it all over the internet and @’ing production or even network people and making devoted articles to make it a shitshow that even hit GA impact zones? Do you really think Nickelodeon would look at their demographic paperwork and throw it in the air and go “Oh! Well we make it gay then.”

Or do you think they’d have left a hard feedback note to further divide those characters with a strong warning about limits and restrictions.

We are slowly moving out of the area of things like queer coded villains and have more migrated into an area of subversive queer coding, but a great deal of subversive queer coding has people lose their SHIT because Some Idiot On The Internet With A Shitty Take And Quarter Assed Interpretation told them “it’s just subtext so it’s not valid until they kiss”, setting out this roving goalpost everybody keeps running after like a goddamn donkey chasing a carrot on a stick, and in some cases completely unable to be reached, despite the LITERAL BEST INTENTION of the authors.

I’ve heard “well if they can’t Bring It All The Way, they shouldn’t at all.” What the FUCK? What kind of UNBEARABLY STRAIGHT WASHED WORLD do you want to live in? What kind of world do you think we’re living in right now? I regret to inform you, Trump got elected to office somehow and reversed a lot of LGBT protections somehow and it’s not just “because Russia,” it’s because there’s still a SHITTON of assholes out there that make corporations that bankroll TV SHITTONS of money and whether we like it or not, TV is a BUSINESS and we’re all DOLLAR SIGNS.

Stripping subversive queer coding, especially from the hands of queer authors, sets us back into a weird offset of primitive ages and extremized content, where the latter becomes poorly packaged lesbians dropped as a marketing plan to upsell Trendy New Teen Show without daring to rattle the middle aged demographic of a split political demographic in another show. No. Absolutely fucking not. Use some responsibility and apply some critical thinking before yelling queerbait and figure out where a problem is in any given situation, that’s all I fucking ask.

Hell for all you know those queer creators could be pitching it again and again behind the scenes, or baited on that side with maybes, or being stalled out by being told to wait for test marketing groups, and generally tugged around on their own leash where corporate is summarily watching the feedback to the blatant but subtextual and coded queer content.

--------

Now, ALL OF THIS becomes a fucking mess in discussion when people don’t box off these definitions and issues.

If people don’t realize the value of subtext to canon,

And people don’t understand the difference between coding and interpretation,

And people confuse queerbait with any of this,

You end up with some giant VAT of literally EVERYBODY sounding like dipshits because Anti A told Shipper B who loves queer author C and relationship D that It’s Just Subtext, and then Shipper B turns around and yells ITS NOT CANON YOU’RE IDIOTS FOR LOVING IT in their pained bitterness, but then Anti A brings Anti B back and they decide they optically prefer relationship Z that has no actual coding or subtext, but they’ve strapped together their own interpretation, but they confuse interpretation and subtext, and break out all interpretations are equal even if they are not in the body of the actual canon work, but now everybody is yelling it’s not canon because nobody even fucking knows what any of these words mean anymore, and then Shippers A-Z turn around and start yelling queerbait at a gay author just trying to write his little gay heart out-- you see the problem, right?

On the other hand, there’s fandoms where people confuse these same points and think their uncorroborated interpretation is subtext simply because they chose to interpret it that way, and with enough voices drawn into it in the vat of “all interpretations are equal”, turn around and yell queerbait at authors who are scratching their heads going “the fuck are you on about”

-------

Other bad takes: The opinions of actors really don’t fucking matter. I don’t care if they’re pro-relationship or anti-relationship or just pro/anti any idea other than a relationship. This is like taking the opinion of some dude who played Hamlet an eternity ago for Shakespeare while Shakespeare was still alive and writing about what Shakespeare’s writing meant. His opinion may be meaningful to him, but it is his own interpretation. If Shakespeare wrote Hamlet The Sequel the actor could turn out entirely wrong about what he was babbling about.

Actors are just interpreting the art to screen like you are. Acting is an interpretive art. They’re just. Interpreting. Just like you. So stop whipping out statements of actors against each other. You might as well be quoting jared-uwu-cest.tumblr dot com as an authority for your bad fucking take. Stop it. If actors on the same set have conflicting opinions and are just talking about their opinion, their opinion doesn’t mean shit more than any other fan of the source content, unless they are hand delivering statements, cited, from specific authors they’ve communicated with about the work they’re interpreting from (coming to mind, the time Jensen Ackles went to showrunner Jeremy Carver confused about the romance with Amara feeling right, only to tell us that Jeremy Carver told us that Amara wasn’t his romance, she was his kryptonite).

Now if you’re choosing death of the author NONE of this is relevant, obviously, because you shouldn’t be citing ANY of this, because then you’re just playing to discussion points for convenience. But if you are looking for actual intent, the actor’s interpretation is only as valid as any other dedicated interpretation, albeit possibly more or less sounded in awareness of the text, but is otherwise only as valuable for how direct of a voice box they are being for what authors said about specific scenes. Hell, most things are filmed out of order and many actors don’t watch the whole piece. It already consumes their work life, it won’t consume their home life, no matter how much they love it, they haven’t reviewed the full body of the piece externally as a finished product, just processed emotions out of sequence.

THERE WAS A NEW AVENGER THAT DIDNT EVEN REALIZE HE WAS ACTING A NEW AVENGER UNTIL HE TOOK HIS KIDS TO THE MOVIES AND WAS LIKE “OH SHIT I’M AN AVENGER.” Stop BANKING on actor statements.

This also gets more complicated in group writing projects such as TV shows with multiple authors. And MORE complicated explaining that complication to fandom when they get positive statements from the creator of a show who is the *only* author and then turn around and yell “WHY DIDN’T [OTHER FANDOM]” do that when like, IDK, 6/40 authors have over the course of however long it’s been written on, most have been radio silent and one other had a different opinion and then you just expect some group borg rising of everybody who’s ever written on the show to come and hand deliver you individual hand-fed statements about what they meant.

This entire thing also foregoes the import of directors and how they work with their set dressers as part of the creative process; they’re what manifest the text into a visual medium of the story, which may or may not be identical to the author’s intent. Again, to hearken back to Supernatural as my root fandom here, it’s been mentioned Sgriccia knew how to work with everyone and get what they were meaning to convey with how long he worked on set, so generally, authors and Sgriccia cooperated really well in a full art. Whereas that nightmare of an episode Don’t Go In The Woods was directed by a VFX guy as his first directing experience and we could see he barely knew how to work with actors much less the spirit of the text; he just had great understanding of environment.

These things, these opinions, these takes also matter. Because TV is a different form. I generally don’t see people arguing Pride & Prejudice on twitter, it’s usually TV/movies. Lit theory is incredibly valid for understanding the pace and flow of a body of work but you also have to understand what authors are deeply plugged into that, what directors are deeply plugged in, who’s an experimental folly they’ll patch up the work of afterward, it’s not the same as just reading a novel by one author or, at most, a few co authors in immediate harmony.

Like I don’t know if people think I did my Crazy Pagan Magic to come up with the season 14 ending like I had a pages-long rant reel of direct quotes and shots that literally predicted that Jack was going to lose his soul, become faux-god, and Dean was going to be given an ultimatum of shooting him, probably after killing Mary, because getting the yellow eyed thing was the point right--but that the true scarlet letterman wasn’t their lost child, but the absent father. The Great Father who left all questions--the god of control. But dad told you to put a bullet in me, and you didn’t.

Like, anyone remember me spouting literally all of these things across different posts? It’s not magic. So while Christians in fandom are turning themselves into pretzels making shitbrained theories trying to explain why it Wasn’t Really Chuck Or Chuck Isn’t Really God, I’ve got a few hundred pages of thesises here talking about this being exactly where they were going because of SUBTEXT. Because it’s PART OF THE CANON AND BUILDING THE FUNDAMENTAL STORY.

If it comes to a textual head like Chuck, great. But people have to recognize whatever landmark they set for what they consider a textual head is entirely subject to the creators or, worse, a network. The same way in season 11 they got told they couldn’t kill God, here we go on take 2, maybe the network changed it’s mind, we’ll find out.

These things all interplay VERY IMPORTANTLY with each other and also, this issue goes WELL BEYOND Supernatural fandom. At some point in history a bunch of people in multiple fandoms started slinging these words around without understanding them and bounced them off of more people that don’t understand them and it turns into a goddamn hot mess because nobody’s using words like they mean anymore, just vaguely beating each over the head with it, and it’s driving me i n s a n e. Hell, y’all are undermining YOURSELVES half the time by the way people have taught you to misuse words.

ALSO WRT “CANON”

Most of the above covers what canon is within the way it’s abused in fandom, but I’ve seen some people take the idea of it being accepted into a body of work by the authors as meaning like, every reading of the material needs to be acknowledged by the authors. I already detailed what it means. It’s absolutely not that. 100%. I don’t give a shit how you choose to interpret that. Because there is literally no way on planet earth an author has made a full statement confirming every detail about every part of their book and that goalpost doesn’t just magically manifest when we’re talking about, say, gay shit. Or powers you don’t like. If it’s thematically there, it’s thematically there, you can’t hackjob it out of canon just because This Specific Idea doesn’t have a Canon For Dummies statement attached to it, or worse, one attached to it specifically to your liking, since people like interpreting away ones based on their preferences rather than reason.

Similarly it doesn’t mean there’s a magic goalpost of a vagueblogged percentage of people that must accept the content for it to be canon. Hell, like half the fandom still tricked themselves into thinking there was a reaper retcon in season 9 (x) that NEVER FUCKING EXISTED IN ANY DAMN CAPACITY. Large groups of people choosing to miss the point doesn’t mean the canon didn’t hold the point, simply that they chose to draw another point out of it. Generally, in a still releasing work, that also leaves them disappointed and confused later (such as when someone claimed they retconned the nonexistent reaper retcon, because I heard you like retcons.)

There is no magic percent, no magic statement. These things are nice, but they aren’t what makes canon. Canon is the actual accepted body of work such as seasons, episodes, books, movies, or whatever else as part of the universe. (Eg: Supernatural’s novels are officially noncanonical and not part of discussion of canon content. They are not accepted into canon. That’s what this means.)

Also if you’re talking about canon quantify it. You can be as tired as you want about bad rep, but bad rep quality has nothing to do with the canon source content. You can be as tired about lowkey gayness as you want but are you saying the canon material isn’t romantic at all, or are you saying the characters aren’t consummated yet. If the canon material isn’t canonically romantic why are you yelling queerbait; or acknowledge the value of queer unconsummated canon romances even if you aspire for more, but don’t bounce that goalpost around for convenience, fuck sake.

DID U KNOW that things can be CANONICALLY ROMANTIC without being CANONICALLY CONSUMMATED? Or that even a queer author’s idea of what reads as consummated canon may not be the same as yours? Did you know that a MLM LGBT author in his 40s may have very different ideas of how to express an MLM romance than a bunch of WLW LGBT women of any age, because there’s intersectionality at play? If you don’t want bi men determining how lesbians should be represented we need to apply that all around, kids.

-----

So sure, your interpretation can be valid, for you. But once you joust others, or pin your interpretation on the show without careful exploration of the actual intentful themes, you’re gonna probably be disappointed as it releases and uproots your ideas. Now the question is if you are willing to hold mature intelligent discourse about other people’s potential interpretations and readings, or if you’re going to grapple onto your old, broken interpretation like Gollum with the Ring because it’s your precious and you’ll let it send you crawling into a moldy cave hissing at anyone happily walking by.

Is Your Interpretation worth your anger when it falls through Do you even WANT to like the show? Do you literally prefer staying angry over reviewing your take compared to people who are still happy with it? Why AREN’T you willing to figure out where you went left of canon?

And furthermore, is your anger and broken interpretation/expectations worth holding onto a damn ring/show that clearly isn’t what you thought it was, or can you toss your fiery stan rage into Mordor before you turn into a twitter goblin and find a place you can interpret differently that makes you happy?

---

Lesson: Stop being fandom goblins

Also @tinkdw

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blinkingstardust · 4 years

Text

thinker

[tw: death, suicide? idk how tws work]

i'm a thinker, so i used to think that thinking is the solution to just about everything.

it makes sense. the more you think, the sooner you'll find a solution that makes sense, a solution that has most pros and least cons, a favourable solution. and most of the time people end up in a completely horrible situation that could've been avoided, had they choose to stop for a moment and think out the entire situation. then again, for people who aren't just natural thinkers, like i am, they'd say that "everything is easier in theory than in practice," which by theory i am sure is true, but i have never tested myself in practice.

then again perhaps that is also the case when it comes to these seemingly avoidable catastrophes in life—perhaps it is because i have never faced such a conflict, that i have never for a moment believed that not everything can be solved with thought. i'd like to think that it's the reverse—i have never ended up in such situations because i use thought, but even i know as a thinker that the theory isn't valid; so much factors come into play in regards to how irregular, out of the ordinary situations occur in our lives. in other words, there are many external factors contributing to the situations i end up in, not merely my thought processes.

so my current stance in life seems to be that i just haven't been hit with a large enough force to truly test the hypothesis that problems can be avoided by thorough planning. regardless, being the semi-realistic person i am, i spend my life planning to avoid these so-called disasters. i learn about everything—from science to humans, to understand the things that pose as risks into my life, so that when the time comes where i have to face something threatening my safety, i'd be able to fight it off. i know how to spot the right people to hang with, so i don't end up being betrayed or being heartbroken by some worthless man. i know what to do to prevent common diseases, and i know to resist impulses such as binge shopping, so i can save money, and drinking, so i don't die early in life. most of all, i learn how others live, so i won't have to repeat the same mistakes people made. and in comparison to these lives i've read about, 17 years is a considerably long period of time to have lived without facing a major disaster caused by my lack of thought.

i'm not quite sure, though, whether 17 years is an extremely late period of time to realise that i haven't been alive at all.

according to some accounts of science, you begin to die right after birth. biologically, the average lifespan of our cells is about 7-10 years, but the shortest lifespan of a cell in our body can be about mere hours. scientifically, the official age our bodies are considered to start dying begins at 25, because before then the rate of cell growth exceeds cell death. by this standard, me being at the age of 17 means that i haven't officially started dying.

but lately, it's been starting to feel a lot like i'm dying, even to a physical extent. and it has little to do with the coronavirus lockdown. in almost every aspect of my life i'm doing fine—i have no major health issues, i have a pretty content family, a decent amount of friends to rely on, grades that i can get by with, and beginning recently, regained freedom to roam around the country, meaning a nice, independent life. with the gadgets i have and the money i save, i have enough to entertain myself during the holidays. but even so, it feels so empty. i spend my days lying on my dorm bed, which feels so much more like a deathbed these days, thinking of how to remain alive, but not doing any of the things i know i should be doing.

and by this i mean: i should be cleaning my room, at least once every two weeks, windows opened, laundry done, taking care of my hygiene, and subsequently, my health. but i haven't touched the vacuum cleaner in two months, the furniture's piled with dust, as if no one's lived in the room for years, the laundry basket overflows with clothes worn without being washed in weeks, the window never being opened that it's killed even my resilient succulent, the bedsheets as it were months ago, never been changed. by this i mean: i should be taking care of my food intake, eating as much vegetables and fruits, taking vitamins, and watching my carb intake, exercising regularly and sleeping at the right time to maintain not just my physical, but mental health as well. but i order takeout every other day, and when i don't, i eat instant, processed food, consume an abnormal amount of caffeine and milk day and night, never touching the vitamins placed on the nightstand right next to the bed, eating too much at once then some days, not at all, sleeping more than half a day then, in a day, less than three broken up hours of sleep, and when awake, never moving the body other than to go to the toilet. by this i mean: i should be maintaining an active daily routine through which i continue to pursuit mental challenges, and artistic endeavours to keep my brain alive, making use of the free time i have to take some classes to reduce the study load of the future, to read the books i don't have time to read in school, to write stories of ideas i think in the shower, to sing and dance, and even rap, the songs i listen to daily, to draw the people i love, to speak of the things people need to hear, to even design a house, or dress up avatars, feeding off my favourite aesthetics, anything to keep the brain alive. but i do none of these, even when i have my laptop, my ipad with the corresponding apple pencil, my papers and pens, my phone, my newly and impulsively bought nintendo switch, my books, all placed around me, i don't make an effort to open the apps i need, don't make a single effort to use my brain, use the creativity, and keep it running, instead i lie on my bed for hours, just thinking, thinking of what i should do and what i shouldn't do and not actually doing it, and looking at the full length mirror next to me and realising just exactly how brain dead i look, and that it's only about time that the body follows suit.

and many of the times i spend just thinking, i find myself conjuring ideas in my head, wishing for myself to be not thinking. i find myself wishing to feel, without thinking of the consequences, without considering all pros and cons of the situation, just going with what i feel. i want to fall in love with the wrong person so wholeheartedly, even if everyone around me argues that said person will inevitably break my heart. i want to go to the club and dance like there isn't a tomorrow, sing my heart out, drown my throat in burning liquor and perhaps in someone's tongue, only to wake up with no memory of the previous night in some good looking stranger's bed. i want to waste my money on a good camera, plane tickets to countries in various continents, take beautiful pictures of the scenery and of friends who may not stick with me for more than a year, and feel the pride off the pictures i take, and have pictures taken of as well so i can post them in my social media and have people see how beautiful of a life i have. i want to be openly rude to people who disrespect others, look down on condescending people, and land myself in prison for confidently leading a movement standing up against prevalent derogatory beliefs, and again for hacking into rich people's accounts to redistribute the wealth. i want to spend the nights in the beach, regardless of curfew, staring at the starry expanse of black, with people i care about and people who care about me, shouts echoing over the deep blue, gathered around the blazing red and orange of the campfire, pouring every feeling we've ever felt, in laughter, in tears, in anger, in fear, as humans. i want to be struck by lightning, hit by a bus, fall from a building, faint from the heat, shot by a bullet, and land in the hospital, few seconds from death, and be given a stronger reason to appreciate the life i have. i want to feel human. i want to live for once.

i keep waiting for something, or someone out there to bring about these changes to me. i'm tired of waiting. i want to start feeling instead of thinking. but as much as i want to do something about it, it's too late—my brain has eaten out most of my heart, and i don't know if there's anything left of it. i can't cause myself to feel anything anymore, the only feelings i feel left are fatigue, tiredness, emptiness. a shell of a human.

i'm starting to think that the only thing that'll end my endless train of thought is when i finally stop breathing—but i don't feel scared. i can't anymore. if anything, i await the day.

—

//broke my writing streak (and, simultaneously, my animal crossing streak, and my normal functioning life in general) and have been so... lifeless in a week so maybe writing this may bring about something

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ariadnelives · 6 years

Text

Chapter 4 -- The Drawing Board

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3]

“Okay,” Ariadne said seriously, pushing her wire-frame spectacles up on her nose, “we've had our fun, blown up a spaceship, made a lot of money and helped a lot of people, but now it's time to assassinate a teenager.”

Pilar stood next to a large whiteboard with a multitude of lists and diagrams scrawled on it. “Or at least lay the groundwork to do so. As you can see,” she explained, pointing at one of the lists with a large measuring stick, “the impostor Ariadne has a variety of identifying features that distinguish her from our Ariadne.” The list read as follows:

THE IMPOSTOR ARIADNE

Fourteen or maybe fifteen

White

Blank, evil eyes

White robe

Shoulder-length blonde hair

Dirty Liar

Forced smile

THE REAL ARIADNE

Twenty years old

Black and proud

Beautiful, sparkling eyes

Short, curly black hair

Charming liar

Genuine, pretty smile

“Now, here's the issue,” Ariadne said, “We have no idea where her headquarters is. The cultists are active in every single bio-dome on Mars, and each neighborhood has established a 'Red God Life Center.'”

“The six largest Life Centers,” Pilar picked up the briefing here, “are heavily guarded. The worst part is, they've used a part of our own mythos to justify this.”

Ariadne continued, “Our crew is largely orphans and runaways. Some of the people we're running away from are very bad people. Ship Trap is so well concealed and fortified partially to keep the authorities from finding us, but also to keep the past from coming to look for those of us who've escaped it.”

“According to the literature they've posted on the FTLnet, these six life centers are heavily guarded to provide a safe refuge for anyone seeking it,” Pilar said, wringing her hands uncomfortably. “Our eyes and ears on the ground have told us that when someone goes into the Life Centers, they always take those damn Suffering Tests and come out preaching the Good Word of the Red God, even people who already had deeply held beliefs of their own when they entered the building.”

“We believe they've been using a textbook form of psychological conditioning. They offer a desperate person a safe haven, then convince them that they owe everything to the cult, and if they refuse to submit to the brainwashing …” Ariadne was too uncomfortable to continue.

“… If they refuse to swear their allegiance to the cult, they get kicked back out on the streets to die,” Pilar explained. “The idea is, you get a safe bed and three meals a day as long as you work for their church.”

“That's sick,” Taryn almost retched. “I mean, making people do your bidding just to stay alive?”

“Exactly.” Ariadne touched her nose in agreement. “That's part of why it's so horrifying that she's stealing my name for this. Every single one of you knows that you don't have to serve on my crew. You do anyway because you like helping people and, honestly, piracy is really fun, but you'd always get the bare necessities even if you just sat around all day.”

“Anything short of that would be monstrous,” Pilar said casually, “which is why we're going to kill the leader of the Red God cult and show Mars what we really stand for.”

“The problem,” Ariadne went on, “is that we can never quite figure out which Life Center she's staying at. Media accounts place her at as many as three of them.”

“So she moves from place to place?” Taryn suggested. “I mean, she has to know you're a real person, right? She might be moving around trying to stay secure.”

“I mean, three at the same time,” Ariadne clarified.

“Easy enough to accomplish indoors with a powerful enough hologram projector,” Pilar mused, “Her followers claim she gives off a divine glow. This could mask the fact that she's just a projection.”

“She's also paper-white and platinum-blonde,” Ariadne pointed out. “The same effect could be achieved with a concealed spotlight and a fog machine. A hologram could be disrupted by a stray housefly landing on the crystal.”

“Decoys?” Sweettalk wondered “Three young women, similar body types, with identical hair and clothing would be difficult to tell apart.”

Deathsbane nodded. “That weird ritualistic makeup could mask subtle differences in their facial features. If properly contoured they could look identical.”

Pilar pointed out, “Let's not forget that the last time we encountered one person in multiple places at once, the explanation was 'lifelike android spies controlled by a dictator.' Perhaps Occam's razor isn't the best route to go here.”

“Spacebreather's right,” Ariadne agreed. “The theory that the fake Ariadne is actually three people is the most likely answer, but we can't discount the idea that she's got holographic or robotic duplicates.”

“Is it too ridiculous to believe she's actually a prophet?” Pilar smirked.

Ariadne stopped this train of thought. “Okay, let's not get into supernatural mumbo-jumbo.”

“Is anyone considering the obvious here?” Sweettalk wondered out loud.

Pilar sighed. “If it was obvious, would you need to ask? Just say what you're going to say.”

“We have to consider the possibility that there is no singular 'Fake Ariadne,' and that whoever's doing the sermonizing isn't the ringleader,” Sweettalk pointed out.

“Otra ves no…” Ariadne muttered, and despite the fact that Pilar had been the first one to propose this possibility to Ariadne, her disdain for Sweettalk made her more inclined to dismiss it.

“We've considered that possibility,” Pilar said calmly and in spite of herself, “but there's no credible evidence to suggest the impostor Ariadne is not the head of the Red God cult.”

“Is there any evidence to suggest she is?” Sweettalk asked. Sasha looked impressed at her audacity. “I mean, she's like fifteen, have you ever heard of a fifteen-year-old cult leader?”

Ariadne groaned. “Why can't anyone get off this point? I had my own space station at fifteen! You're only seventeen and you could practice law if you wanted! Deathsbane was one of the best doctors in the system at thirteen! We're surrounded by teenage masterminds; is it so hard to believe the same could be true of one of the bad guys?” Pilar bit her tongue.

“No one's saying it's not possible,” Sweettalk insisted, “but you have to admit, that isn't the best sample size. You and Sasha, well, haven't you considered that you're a little… exceptional?”

Sasha blushed.

“I'm just saying, think of the implications here. If you're running a cult with a prophet who can be in three places at once, does it make sense for two of them to be robotic decoys and one of them to be real, or does it make more sense to have three robots?”

Ariadne sighed. “Three robots.”

“Same goes for holograms. If she could pass off holographic decoys as herself, would it make sense for her to ever appear in person?”

“She'd probably remain behind the scenes, but that doesn't prove she's not—”

“See, it proves that she's not necessarily what she appears to be. Holograms and robots can be customized to look like whatever the designer wants. She might look like the 15-year-old we've been hearing about, but she could look like anyone.”

“And what about your theory?” Pilar's jaw tightened. “You posit three body doubles, made up to look identical.”

“Yes, three girls, all of them smokescreens. Three teenage girls in a cult, all about the same age, with a clear physical resemblance? This is going to sound indelicate, but most cult leaders are adult men, and many of them take multiple wives. It's plausible that he could have had three daughters born to three different women, all within a few months. With enough makeup, half-sisters could look similar enough to pass off as the same person.”

“That's sick,” Taryn said, frowning.

“Sicker than holding people's food and shelter hostage to get them to promote your cult door to door?” Sweettalk replied.

“That's enough,” Pilar snapped. “Your theory is plausible, sure, but only if we accept multiple things we have no reason to accept.”

“I'm just saying—”

“I know, and I acknowledge what you're saying is a possibility, but it doesn't change anything.” Pilar seemed to be making an effort to calm down, torn slightly between her distaste for Sweettalk and the fact that this was literally the exact theory she'd been trying to propose for the past few days. “Whoever the ringleader is, we've still got to take them out.”

“It does change something,” Sasha said somewhat quietly.

“How's that?” Pilar asked, some of the steam settling.

“If it's real teenage girls, then they're brainwashing children, and that doesn't seem like the kind of thing we stand for.”

“Deathsbane is right,” Ariadne announced. “I hate to admit it… I really hate to admit it, but if the girl on stage isn't the ringleader, and I'm not conceding that, then she's a victim, and it's our job to help her.”

“So what's the plan?” Taryn piped up. “We can't just go in there guns blazing.”

Pilar looked thoughtful, and said “I think our best bet is to start with basic reconnaissance and information gathering. Station teams in safehouses near the Life Centers, one in each bio-dome. When canvassers come by, we invite them in, act genuinely curious. We need to learn as much as we can about their organization—”

“—things that we can't learn from their propaganda or their official pitch,” Ariadne cut in. “We have to get them to go off-book and tell us something their bosses don't want us to know without blowing our cover.”

“Okay,” Pilar said, “Standard stakeout procedures, observe and report. I'll be sending your squad assignments and mission specs to you by lights-out tonight. Take the evening to pack a bag of essentials. This shouldn't be a long stay.”

“I hope it's not too short,” Sasha said. “It's been a while since I've been back to the mainland, it'll be nice to stand on solid ground again.”

“You're not going,” Pilar said. “We need to leave a skeleton crew in command, you and a handful of my best Whiptails, in case the station comes under attack; you're the only one who knows the station as well as Ariadne and me.”

“I assumed you two would be manning the command center, you know, stay in the loop and all that.” Sasha sighed.

“We have our own mission,” Pilar explained. “We'll be paying a visit to La Pesadilla, see if she can shed any light on this.”

“I thought you hated La Pesadilla.” Sasha tried in vain to hide her exasperation with her sister.

“Everyone hates La Pesadilla,” Spacebreather replied. “She's a blackmailing lowlife who doesn't care about anything but lining her own pockets, but the upshot of that is that if there's something shady going down, you can bet she'll have eyes and ears on it.”

“But—” Sasha pleaded.

“—Dismissed, crew,” Pilar cut her off.

Ariadne patted Sasha on the shoulder as Pilar retreated down the hallway and the crowd dispersed. “I'm sorry. You should know, I fought her on this… but believe me, this place practically runs itself.”

“Not helping,” Sasha grumbled. Sweettalk hung back but kept her distance.

“No, you're not listening.” Ariadne put a hand on each shoulder and made eye contact over her glasses.

“What?” Sasha couldn't quite mask her frustration.

“This place is so well fortifed that you could basically leave it abandoned and nobody could touch it,” Ariadne said.

“Yeah, I get it.” Sasha tried to break eye contact, but Ariadne held on. “My sister doesn't want me leaving the station so she made up a job that doesn't need doing just to keep me here.”

“No, no… well, yes, that's exactly what she's doing, but you're not listening to me. You're hearing but you're not listening,” Ariadne said pointedly. “Spacebreather and I are going to be gone for a few days, but this place is so self-sufficient that you could probably just… take off for a day or two, have some fun, and as long as you got back before us, nobody would even know.”

Something clicked in Sasha's head. “Oh!!”

“She's very smart, really,” Sweettalk called from the other side of the room, “she's just new to mischief. I'll see to it she takes full advantage of what you just said.”

“Good man,” Ariadne said, disappearing down the corridor.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Sweettalk muttered to Sasha, “You know we aren't going on vacation, right?”

“I figured you'd have something up your sleeve.” Sasha smirked. “What's the plan?”

“They have La Pesadilla,” Sweettalk said, smiling, “and you know I've got my own shady contacts.”

“I thought you weren't on speaking terms with him,” Sasha said.

“Well, he could never resist a challenge,” Sweettalk explained, “and if you bust out and come back with some real answers, we could shove it in your sister's face.”

“Well, I don't know about face-shoving, but if you think he can get us some answers…” Sasha trailed off. “…Either way, I'm sure Pilar's given an order to keep me on the station, and you're the only one of her Whiptails who'll disregard that order.”

“You might want to talk to Fastwing.” Sweettalk winked. “Tell her you'll need to pull the ripcord. She'll know what that means.”

#core story

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melissagt · 5 years

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Find the Word Tag Game

I was tagged by @greencrusader13 - thank you!

Rules: find the four words in your writing, and then pick four more that other people need to find in theirs. I’m going to do both of these here in this post.

I’m tagging: @tishinada and @cinlat

Greencrusader13′s Words: beacon, light, child, and fortune

My Words: rich, articulate, pierce, regret

Beacon

(From “The Mystic’s Dream”) “I watched as the phoenix rose once again from the ashes of conflict,” he continued, almost in a chant, his voice rising along with the impact of his words. “I watched as it brought with it a promise of new life, and a new beginning…a shining beacon for all…even you, Sith.” Valen-Da narrowed his gaze at the much taller man, and despite the height difference, somehow managed to appear even taller, so much so that Raz felt Scourge hesitate beside her. “And finally, I watched as it was chased straight out of the void by the fires of that same dragon.”

Light (gl, this one is everywhere...even in my smut apparently...I’ll just pick a few significant ones)

(From “Not Afraid Anymore”) Nox had always had strong feelings regarding the topic of personal choices and beliefs. She carried them with her from her old life, having lived under the yoke of another's control for so long. During that more-than-dark part of her life, she'd been forced to say and do things that had left many scars, both mentally and physically. The idea that a weak-minded Sith would needlessly strike down an ally simply for having inclinations toward the Light side served to incite her rage. The entire concept of being Sith was to break chains, not forge new ones, and that meant interpreting the Code however one saw fit. Her eyes narrowed in barely-contained anger, and she laid her palms flat on the table for support. “I don't care if a Sith is as pure as new-fallen snow, so long as their intentions align with the advancement of the Empire.”

She saw a man clad in brilliant white and gold, the light reflecting off of his flawless armor almost searing into her vision. The majority of his face was covered in an expressionless mask, save for a single eye turned on her, a golden eye wreathed in flame that was so piercing it felt like he could see straight through to her very being. She held up a hand to shield herself from the blinding light, but she couldn't escape him.

And the one thing he should have hated himself for, questioning his loyalty, he found that he didn't really give a womp rat's ass about. He would keep on with his life, going through the motions because that was what he was supposed to do. He was born in the Republic, that was who he would fight for. But he couldn't forget what she'd shown him. It had been a wake-up call, of sorts. That the only thing separating them in this war was geography. It wasn't a battle between good and evil, Light and Dark. It was a war over power, money, and greed...on all sides. Maybe that was the one good thing he'd taken away from his heartache, that his eyes were now open. But what good was it, if he couldn't do anything about it? He'd have been branded a traitor if anybody were to find out. It was bad enough that people treated him like a freak for banging a Sith, those who knew about it. And by that point, word had gotten around.

The blunt and surprisingly honest answer was that no, he couldn't make himself hate him, now that he had a story to go with the scarred face. He did have to admit to himself, though, that perhaps he was just a bit envious, and it wasn't because he had Nox...well not entirely. He'd seen the man's military record. Complete-And-Total-Poster-Boy-For-The-Republic. They could have used his picture for recruitment ads, and even then they'd screwed him over. His father had given him the behind-the-scenes insight that was never supposed to have seen the light of day. A cover-up. Captain Thompson had lost his entire squadron to an attack in neutral space after the Treaty had been signed, and his own government, the one he'd given his life over to, had done nothing. It shouldn't have been a surprise that he had walked away.

He watched the yellowish light of the hangar glint upon the blade as it spun and danced through the man’s large fingers. He was surprisingly quick with it, despite the ham hands. Andronikos supposed that he had to be. Blaster rifles couldn’t be carried everywhere, and that night was one of those occasions. A night out on the town meant no armor, and no open weapons. Well, at least not for them. Lightsabers were another thing entirely, and there was no way he wanted to be the bouncer who would dare try to part a Sith from her life-line.

“Ugh, ffffuck…” he groaned, blinking his eyes against the overly bright light shining through the shattered cockpit windows. A gust of icy air hit his face, making him shiver against the restraints of his flight harness, and each ragged puff of breath he managed to push out of his lungs could be seen for a brief moment before disappearing into the frigid atmosphere around him. Delicate flakes of snow had already begun to waft and drift into the cabin, giving every flat surface he could see a fine coating of sparkling white powder.

A light drizzle had begun to fall, fine mist-like droplets that clung to every surface like dew. It weighed down her hair, dampened their skin to a sticky sheen, and turned the world around them into a hazy, glowing symphony of color. Pinks…blues…greens…yellows…they all flashed and swum before them with a sense of choreography, almost dancing.

Nox couldn’t get out of there fast enough. As soon as it stopped, she was back on the duracrete, welcoming the steely touch of the cold, wet ground against the pads of her feet. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering against the light breeze that had cropped up as she waited impatiently for Nik to climb out of the cab after her. And of course, that didn’t happen. Some muffled Huttese floated through the air, words she couldn’t be brought to care enough about to listen to, followed by the sharp sound of the two men sharing a laugh over something that was apparently the funniest thing ever.

(From “Thunderstruck”) The shroud wrapped around her head, leaving only her green eyes exposed. But they weren’t just green, he noticed, and not for the first time. As the light caught them, it was like looking into a pool in the ocean, one where the water was so clear you could see bits of the sun shining through it, almost dancing in the current. And when she turned away, the smile he knew she still wore reaching even those calculating emerald depths, he was left wanting more. So much more. Anything. Everything.

(From “The Mystic’s Dream”) The Mystic’s words echoed throughout the darkened chamber with a ring of finality that felt like a weight pulling at her ankles…one that tugged her forcibly away from the setting sun as it flickered above the surface of a shimmering pool of water. Away from the light, and away from the last shreds of hope she’d held close to her heart. She couldn’t breathe, and the bit of air still in her lungs escaped through a silent sigh of defeat.

“I would give anything to be able to taste you…if only once…wo’mielis ja’ti.” Hot breaths tickled at her neck, replaced with the light threat of teeth, tempting her in the worst of ways. She had no idea what that last bit meant, and frankly, she really didn't care. It sounded pretty, there was that, but her mind was quickly losing focus to something much more important. Lips. A pointed tongue. More teeth, all working together, blazing a path back up to her mouth. And despite any awkwardness, her body was starting to respond. It didn't care either.

(From “Petrichor”) She cast her gaze about for the long-forgotten robe she'd tossed somewhere when Scourge had thrown her onto the giant four-poster several hours earlier. There was just enough light left locate it, flung over a chair in a corner, as well as a pair of underwear that were thankfully still intact. She really had to teach that large red Sith of hers that they came off and didn't need to be ripped off. Once in a while was fine...hot even, but he'd shredded his way through at least five pair so far. And some pants. And some shirts. Then there was the broken settee in the far corner of the room. And the headboard that belonged to the elaborately carved wooden bed frame. If they'd been renting, they most certainly would not have gotten their deposit back. The Commander and Theron were going to be so pissed.

Child

(From “Not Afraid Anymore”) “I have…known the love a father feels for a daughter.” The sound of his synthesized voice startled her out of her reverie, and she paused for a moment before continuing with their leisurely stroll. With no expression to read, and any trickle of emotion through the Force kept tightly under wraps, Nox could only rely on the inflection of his voice. “And I feel the same pride a father feels when he sees that daughter exceed even his best expectations.” He stopped, turning towards her. “You have overcome much since I found you wandering the streets of Kaas City, a child starving and afraid. You have become all that a Sith should strive to be – powerful, determined, loyal…you refuse to involve yourself in the petty squabbles and posturing that only serve to hinder us all, and you are willing to do what needs to be done for the betterment of the Empire as a whole.”

He pulled her head away from his shoulder so that he could look at her face, which consequently, prompted her to try and get away in order to hide herself again. Like a frighted child. She was thoroughly embarrassed...ashamed of herself for losing her shite, and even angrier at herself for allowing these emotions to get the better of her. What kind of leader of the Empire could she ever hope to be, blubbering around like a spineless fool over...love?

Theron was not in the mood to deal with having to defend his actions - it seemed like that was all he'd been doing lately. He could picture it, he probably looked a lot like a pouting child right at that moment, sitting there with his shoulders hunched, his jaw set in defiance as he glared at the wall across from him. A lot like a kid who'd gotten caught getting into fights at school. Hilarious.

(From “Petrichor”) “No...no thanks, Toovee.” Raz trotted down the stairs, one creak at a time, and when she reached the bottom, she leaned forward until she could see around the corner into the kitchen, half-expecting to find Scourge sitting at the counter, getting into Theron's cereal again. Really, who would have thought that the Big Bad Sith had a thing for kiddie cereal? It came as no surprise that her thirty-five year old man-child of a best friend did, but surely one so depraved and evil as the former Emperor's Wrath had to eat small puppies or something for breakfast, or an evening snack.

Fortune

(From “Not Afraid Anymore”) “I do hope you plan on buying me something nice with your vast fortune of winnings, my darling,” she teased, pulling herself to her feet. She let her accent roll the last word off of her tongue, knowing just how much he loved to hate any sort of pet name she gave him.

#find the word meme #long post #my writing

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metinthehallway · 6 years

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Gaia

Idek what this is, it’s just an idea that came to me upon looking at that one pic of harry sitting on the grass with a red bandanna around his neck and sunglasses on his head. Nothin too serious but I thought I’d post bc it’s 7 am and why not? 4.5k words of nonsense

In the flat green fields of Woodstock, New York, a young man sits with his knees pulled lazily to his chest. He’s found the perfect place to disappear, a tucked away corner in the shade of a large elm tree, a refuge from the constant commotion of the festival happening around him. It’s only the first day and he’s seen about 30 people carted away on makeshift stretchers either due to heat stroke, dehydration or too much LSD, about two thirds of them most likely suffering from all three. Scoping out the bodies swaying barefoot to the tune up of an electric guitar, he lets his mind wander. To this morning, finally dragging himself out of the body-sized indent in his bed. To last night, lying beneath the stars on the hood of his 1957 Cadillac, soft palms resting right on the hot metal as if it could burn the fingerprints right off his body. As if it could burn the existence right out of him.

To last month and the letter in the mail that changed the coursing river of his fate. The swiftness of the water sludged down to a motionless one, not a ripple to be seen for miles. He thought back to the letter, written in blue ink, written five states away in a room he’s never seen before. She sat in that unfamiliar room, on an unfamiliar chair and whipped out the most formal stationary she owned and proceeded to cross her T’s and dot her I’s and break his heart. She used to spray her letters with his favorite perfume of hers so that when they arrived they would carry a sweet reminder; that she remembered the small details about him, that she remembered enough of him to call it love.

When the mailman unceremoniously dropped the pile of bills and subscriptions and a single handwritten letter onto his entryway floor he didn’t know he would spend the rest of the day in his room, on his bed, staring at the blazing summer sun making its way across his wall. The letter, adorned with drying tear stains that marred the pretty blue cursive, was absent of any faint trace of lemon. It was more bitter than the words that played on repeat in his mind, a record player skipping on the ugliest part of the song and distorting itself into a continuous screech. Words saying over and over again, “it’s not you, it’s the distance”. As if she wasn’t the one who created the distance in the first place.

The unmistakable sound of a cheering crowd brought him back to the present. Harry felt the grass poking at the tender skin of his hands as he ran them back and forth lazily to the music emitting from the speakers. A band he didn’t know the name of just walked on stage and everyone went wild, tipping their beers and sloshing the beverage all over the ground below them. He frowned, looking across the littered lawn at the variety of trash blanketing the green earth. Piles of cups, cans and bottles discarded, cigarette butts and clipped joints burned amongst wrappers of fast food and flyers showcasing the lineups for the day. He thought it was such an unnecessary thing to do as the large dumpsters lining the perimeters stood empty and void of their purpose. It was unfair. And he suddenly felt a great need to do something about it. Anything to get his mind off her.

Harry stood to his feet and brushed off the back of his pants so they would be free of dirt, ignoring the inevitable grass stains on his dark grey corduroys, and fixed the red bandanna tied loosely around his collar. He took off in the direction of the largest trash pile. He hadn’t even wanted to be here. He loved music, sure, but he bought these tickets months ago with his friends with the money he saved from his shoveling side job during the winter when things were drastically different. He’s been mentally preparing himself for the amazing experience he would soon have at dear old Woodstock. He planned everything down to the minute but what he hadn’t planned on was his girlfriend of 2 years to up and cut all forms of ties she had with him, which nowadays were only came in a weekly letter due to her having moved miles away. He couldn’t even enjoy himself here, couldn’t allow the music to wash over him in that special healing way it did when he heard a spectacular guitar riff or felt the beat of the drums sync up with his pulse.

So he grabbed a leaf bag that lined one of the smaller garbages towards the center of the festival and walked around, picking up single pieces of wayward trash before moving to the more compact piles. He didn’t realize how far he’d walked until his bag was filled to the brim with a plethora of waste and his arms started to ache in protest. Half carrying and half dragging the bag, he headed over to the industrial dumpsters and wrangled the ballooned bag over the top of the container. A hot and soupy liquid leaked onto his chest in the process and he recoiled, dropping half of the bags contents back on the ground. He groaned and with a dejected sigh and began to pick it all up again. When he straightened at the waist, he felt a pair of eyes boring holes into his back. He shrugged off the feeling as there were obviously a lot of eyes in the vicinity today and successfully got rid of the garbage once and for all.

Turning around, Harry made eye contact with a girl about 100 feet away. She looked to be around his age, maybe younger, holding a trash picker in one hand and a nearly full black garbage bag in the other. In a quick once over he notices long black hair trailing onto the ruffled shoulders of a white floral blouse that ended at the waistband of dark brown bell bottoms, giving way to thickly strapped sandals peeking underneath the fabric. She gives him a wide smile and throws up a peace sign, her chubby fingers clad with an assortment of rings on each one. He thought it must be difficult to use the picker with the clunky bands of metal hitting the switch every other second to open up the claws at the end when they didn’t need to be opened up. He tilts his head slightly to the side and furrowing his brows he lets a small, tight smile take over his face. She must’ve thought he was a fellow advocate for Mother Earth like her. He wasn’t really. He just needed something to do.

Averting her gaze, he finds his way through the disjointed crowds in search of his friends, Eric and Johnny. He was hoping he could see Eric’s circular afro bopping above the sea of bouncing heads or Johnny’s tremendously long arms flailing out of rhythm to the heavy music sounding out through the trees. He was ready to go and they had all taken Harry’s car to Woodstock. Fumbling with his keys, he saw a familiar body going hard in the middle of a mosh pit, semi greasy pieces of hair flying about Johnny’s face as his bony elbows found a different target to impale every two seconds. Taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, Harry braved the pit. His feet were being crushed every time he took a step and he stopped just outside of the core of the mosh, hanging low in the outer edge. He called out his friends name.

“Johnny! Johnny Menzel!” Harry repeated his name until the letters no longer made sense and his name no longer sounded like a word. Johnny was too caught up in the music. Harry wishes he could throw away his brain, wishes he could actually enjoy himself this weekend but alas. Here he was, wanting to go home to sulk in his bed after only three hours at the festival. They were supposed to go all night, him and his friends, even after the acts had finished their gigs. He told them he would stay for them because they knew he was going through the ringer at the moment and he wanted to be that reliable Harry he was, not this flakey, emotional Harry. But here he was, going back on his word. Harry traveled further into the dense crowd of flying limbs and swirling hair and tugged on Johnny’s shoulder, turning him around to face him.

“Harry! Fancy seeing you here dude,” Johnny exclaimed, brushing a sweaty strand of dirt colored hair out of his eyes in order to see his friend. Red rimmed the translucent blue irises, eyelids drooping heavily over them as a cheesy grin found its way onto his face. Harry resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Johnny was having fun, everyone around him was having fun. So why couldn’t he? Johnny had four months of rent to worry about that was due in two days but here he was, head banging to some obscure band amidst total strangers with their own problems. Maybe that was the way to let forget about it; smoke a whole lot of weed and let your body do all the thinking. Harry felt he couldn’t even do that, though. He just wanted to go home.

One look at Harry’s face and Johnny could tell what he was thinking. Shaking his head quickly, he backed away from Harry with his palms up and started to walk over to the canteen where they were selling bottled water for outrageous prices. Harry followed him and watched as he whistled and started picking at the bush next to the table, seemingly interested in its foliage. Harry knew what he was doing, having seen this same scene play out hundreds of times. The person in the chair counting money didn’t notice when Johnny swiped a cold bottle from the row and strutted away, Harry scoffing and trailing behind.

“Listen,” Harry says, catching up to Johnny. “I’ll stay the whole day tomorrow, I promise. I just can’t today. It’s too hot and...loud,” Harry finished, grasping for any excuse and coming up short. Of course it’s loud and sweaty. They’re at a music festival. In the middle of August.

Johnny could hear the absolute bullshit in his words and whirled around, placing a cold and condensated hand on Harry’s shoulder, chugging half of the water in one gulp before opening his mouth. “Yeah, because that’s totally the reason you want to leave before Janis Joplin comes on stage. You know, the quote unquote love of your short lived life? The woman you’ve obsessed over since you knew what a boner was?” Harry smacked Johnny’s hand off his shoulder, suppressing an intense blush before groaning. He should know by now to never tell his friends anything about himself.

“Man, I told you that in confidence,” Harry whines.

“You were drunk off your ass and announced that Janis Joplin gave you musical hard ons to a garage full of people. Don’t act all scandalized. You do it to yourself,” Johnny quips. “Anyway,” he continues animatedly. “Eric and I told you we were going to drag you out of that house if it was the last thing we did. And we did it. You can’t stay in that musty room anymore. I get that you’re hurt, man, I really do,” Harry crosses his arms at this statement but that doesn’t deter Johnny. “But we’ve been talking about this forever! I should’ve spent most of this money on rent but here I am, getting paid in experience. This is too groovy man, and you’re making it seem like a chore,” Johnny ends his miniature rant with a pouty bottom lip and what seems like a stab at a comforting voice but all it sounds like to Harry is pitying.

“I’m going home,” Harry announces, choosing to ignore the well meaning monologue. He jingles his keys in front of Johnny’s face, the 8 ball accesory almost making contact with his aquiline nose.”With or without you guys.” Johnny rears his head back.

“Looks like it’s without then. I’m going to go find Eric. And together we will find a ride. If not, we’ll just sleep on a bench or something. Maybe even on the wet grass,” he says, letting out an exaggerated gasp. “It’s all about the experience,” Johnny says, before turning on his heel in search of the third staple friend in their group. Harry knows he shouldn’t feel betrayed by them. It would be unfair with all the moping they’ve put up with and all the times they smoked a bowl on Eric’s roof and Harry talked for hours and hours about her. Her pointy ears, her dainty wrists, her brown eyes he wanted to sow seeds in, watch flowers grow out of. Yeah, he was high. He was also sad. And they knew it. They sat there and let him talk for as long as he wanted to, even until the sun came up. They were good friends, he reminded himself on the way to his car. They just wanted to have fun.

Shoving his key into the ignition, he felt the Cadillac roar to life. He spent a full year working on this car, restoring it to its former glory. He loved his baby, even gave her a name: Candace. It wasn’t too creative but it was something to call his own. Putting his car into reverse and letting his foot off the break, he slowly rolled backwards out of his hazardous parking space, in his own little world. He regretted being to lazy to check his blindspot when he heard a dull thud and a grunt, the sound of numerous object falling to the ground. Harry’s eyes widened as he put the car in park, scrambling for the door handle. He missed the lock three times before successfully disarming it and opening the door. He hesitantly made his way to the back of Candace, heart racing. He just hit someone.

In the two seconds it took to get to the bumper, Harry’s thought process went something like this; Oh my god. I just hit someone with my car. I’m in so much shit. Deep shit. Center of the Earth shit. They’ll sue me. Wait, what if they’re can’t sue me because they’re dead? I wasn’t going that fast, was I? What if they hit their head on Candace on the way down to their demise? What if there’s blood? I can’t handle blood! Oh my god, I’m going the throw up ohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Rounding the back of the car (and discretely flicking his gaze to the headlight for any sign of damage), he sees a familiar pair of thick and strappy sandals and his heart drops even more. It was Hippie Girl he just mowed over with his car. He stands there, frozen as she begins to stir, loud groans escaping her lips. She tries to sit up and Harry finally moves, rushing over and dropping to his knees, making sure to cradle her head so she doesn’t hurt anything else.

Upon opening her eyes, his breath catches. They’re the deepest shade of brown he’s ever seen and it chills him to the bone. It’s an unsettling stare. Various emotions pass over her face like clouds in the sky ranging from shock, confusion, pain and then finally, anger. She winces and takes a stuttered breath, opening up her deeply bowed mouth.

“What the hell just happened,” she questions angrily. Her thick brows furrow and dimple her forehead in the process. She turns her dark eyes left and right as if to gather her bearings before connecting with his, a recognizance sparking to life behind them like a flame. He gulps, praying silently for the Earth to swallow him up.

“Well,” Harry drawls out, unsure of how to say it. “I kind of backed into you with Candace. But not on purpose! I was...changing the radio station,” he lies, not wanting to seem like a wack job that doesn’t deserve his license. “I am so, so, so, so, so incredibly, terribly sorry. Here let me help you.”

With one hand on her back and the other wrapped around her wrist, he gently helps her up. As soon as she rises to her feet, she swats his hands away. Grimacing, she rotates her neck side to side and finds that it’s only a bit sore and still capable of full motion. Testing out the rest of her body, she stretches out her limbs, flinching slightly when she takes a step forward. Lifting her shirt to expose her hip where Harry assumes he hit with his car, he sees the start of a nasty bruise spreading into the waist of her dark brown jeans the same time she does. Lifting her head, he sees her face turn red with anger. A sharp inhale leaves both of their mouths. Uh oh, Harry thinks to himself. I’m definitely getting sued.

The Hippie Girl starts mumbling under her breath.

“Uh, what are you doing?” Harry asks uneasily. He really didn’t feel like getting cursed by your run of the mill Woodstock Witch, no matter how much he deserved it. She ignores him and turns her focus to the trash bag lying half empty in the dirt, its contents splayed all around them, many having rolled under nearby cars. She closes her eyes in defeat. Harry, feeling awful, hurriedly bends down to pick up all the garbage he can fit into his arms, not caring this time around if any mysterious liquid drips onto him.

Stuffing the armful of random waste into the bag at her feet, he hears what she’s saying. He stays crouched, cocking his head. She’s not saying any words, just counting. The numbers drop down from one hundred in threes, it seems. He pauses to listens. 97, 94, 91, 88, 85, 82…The numbers stop suddenly at 79 and he looks up to see her looking at him, almost black eyes narrowed. He straightens up quickly, clearing his throat. “Listen,” he says frantically. “You have to understand how sorry I am. I’m not usually the type of guy who goes around running over girls with his car.”

“I would hope not,” she shoots back. “You’re lucky I have somewhere to be or else I would really be laying into you, dude. Changing radio stations? Really? Are you that shitty of a driver?” She puts her hands on her fleshy hips, forgetting about the bruise and cursing quietly. “Whatever,” she says softly, almost to herself, diverting her gaze to the sad looking trash bag. “I have somewhere to be.”

Reaching down to get a firm grip on the bag, Harry stops her. He feels like the worst person in the world. He can’t let her leave like this.

He could’ve hurt her way worse than a bruise. And he already felt horrible about the bruise, sucking in his own breath like he was the one who got hit when he saw it. Taking the bag from her, his hands dwarfing her own ring covered ones, he jogs over to the nearest dumpster before she can protest and throws it in. Returning to her, he holds up his hands in some type of truce.

“Where are you going? Maybe you could let me take you there. It’s the least I can do. And if you’re in such a hurry, driving would get you to wherever you need to go way faster than your tiny feet could. Not that there’s anything wrong with tiny feet,” he hurries out. “Just can’t cover as much ground as my Candace,” he finishes with a proud smile and a knuckle rapping twice on the trunk.

“As if I’m sitting in the same car that ran me over. A car that you named Candace. No chance buddy,” she says, already twisting her body to physically leave the conversation. Harry inwardly groans. She seemed more than capable of doing things on her own and she definitely didn’t want Harry’s company but he felt like he owed her. Scratch that. He didn’t just feel like he owed her: he absolutely knew that he did. He hit her with his car!

He watches her retreating figure for a full minute before deciding to catch up to her. If she didn’t accept his ride, he would at least see her arrive to her destination safely.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks, side eyeing his profile. She’s made it all the way to the entrance of the festival full of congested cars. He shrugs his shoulder, remaining silent as they walk, not quite together, but not quite like strangers.

She weaves her way in between the vehicles, a bit more wary now that she knows what it’s like to be rammed into by one of them. He walks behind her, observing her straight posture and confident walk silhouetted by the setting sun. The dying star turned the frizzy halo around the crown of her head an orange tint and made her swinging hands glint brightly, courtesy of the multiple rings that called her fingers home. Her blouse was falling off one shoulder, sporting a couple dirt stains on the white fabric from her fall. Another thing he was sorry about. His eyes wander down to the swell of her backside against the tightness of her bell bottoms. He almost doesn’t notice she’s stopped walking and thankfully he does in time, or else he would’ve ran into her. That would’ve been bad. That would have brought on an onslaught of, “You can’t drive AND you can’t walk? How did you even get this far in life being a total safety hazard?”

Harry can just hear it now.

She’s stopped in her tracks because a small fender bender blocks her path. She huffs and turns around not knowing how close Harry is, running right into his chest and bouncing back. “Woah there,” he says, putting both hands on her upper arms to steady her.

She shrugs him off and lets her feet carry her to the left, through a break in bumper to bumper traffic. Harry follows, of course. He thinks just a bit more than normal before opening his mouth. “You think they’d see the traffic and the sun setting and turn around to go home, wouldn’t you? Like, day one’s almost over, the acts are wrapping up their sets,” he says matter-of-factly. She doesn’t say anything, just nods her head infinitesimally in grudging agreement. Harry takes this as a good sign. She’s no longer biting at his head.

“So,” he starts off. “What’s your name? I’m Harry. Harry Styles. And, again, I’m so sorry I hit you with my car.” He finds himself by her side, walking faster to keep up. Maybe her tiny feet aren’t so ineffectual, he thinks with a huff. She doesn’t seem to be too eager to answer him so he presses further.

“What are you doing here anyway? At Woodstock I mean. You don’t look like you were enjoying the music so I’m just curious as to why someone spends their Friday afternoon picking up other people’s messes. Seems kinda pointless if you ask me,” he says, rubbing a large hand around the nape of his neck. This garners a reaction from her and she looks up at him, an incredulous look on her otherwise serene face.

“My name is Cynthia,” she begins, voice gaining more traction as she goes on. “And it’s a good thing no one asked you then. I’m here because a bunch of environmentally challenged idiots get together and fry their brains to the sound of metal screeching on metal and create more litter than what’s found in a town dump. I’m here because no one but me seems to care about the environment. Do you know how much waste this godforsaken festival generates? And do you know how often they let it be stampeded into the Earth? They don’t clean this shit up, man,” she swears and breathes in, continuing her spiel. “I mean I thought you cared. Do you? Or is your favorite pastime just taking out random pedestrians with your obnoxiously red car like it’s a bowling ball and we’re the pins?” She finishes her last sentence with a snark.

Harry raises his eyebrows in surprise, halting mid step. Whatever he says is the wrong thing, so he just purses his lips and stares straight ahead. If I just stayed with Johnny and Eric, I wouldn’t be stuck with this self righteous hippie, he thinks. He knows she has every right to be angry but he’s been in too bad of a mood to even begin sympathizing. Everything feels like a direct attack to him at the moment.

Mentally sighing, he falls back in step with Cynthia, feeling bound to her at least until she knows she’s safe. She may be mean and sarcastic and all the synonyms of angry in one person, but after she’s arrived where she needs to go, Harry will never have to see her again. This thought gives him a bit of relief. She really is draining on his energy and he feels the need to pack a bowl just being around her.

They’ve been walking in uncomfortable silence for a mile now and she stopped protesting his presence about half a mile ago. The sky eventually turned dark and the stars have come out from behind their cloudy curtains when they finally approach a small neighborhood full of neatly stacked white houses and manicured lawns, most of which are full of blooming yellow black eyed susans and crisp white hydrangeas. She walks a bit quicker, a skip in her step as she nears a white blocked house with pale yellow window shutters and the number 19 in gold lettering on the front door. As she hops up the steps, her bell bottoms swish against the ground.

She turns around. Narrowing her dark eyes yet again, she bites out a curt, “thank you”. Harry’s about to smile but before he does she follows up with a, “thank you, really. For hitting me with Candace. That’s a hardcore stripper name, you know,” she blows a piece of thick onyx hair out of her face. “I didn’t need you to walk me home. Really. So I’m not going to give you a heartfelt thank you. You hit me with your car,” she says pointedly. She can’t believe she ended up here at the end of another seemingly routine day, standing on her front porch and looking into eyes so green it feels like she’s staring at a motionless forest, waiting for the trees to move.

“Have a wonderful night, Henry.”

And with that, Cynthia closes her front door with a flourish and in the quiet night, Harry can hear the lock click shut. “It’s Harry,” he says out loud to no one but himself.

“Fucking Cynthia,” he grumbles before twisting on his heel so fast it almost creates smoke, briskly walking down the single road in the complex back to Woodstock. He hears a flutter in the bush to his right and the brisk pace turns into a jog.

“Fucking Cynthia,” he repeats, shaking his head.

#harry styles #harry styles fic #writing #woodstock #1960s au #fic #harry styles imagine

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villa-kulla · 6 years

Note

Is it possible to ask for a DVD commentry for Chisolm's 7 for either the planning the heist scene in chapter 3, from "I can't believe you" to 'And they all went back into the casino, getting ready for the final sprint' in chapter 10 or the faraday/vasquez scene in chapter 8? This fic is one of my favourite fics of all time, you kept me on the edge of my seat untill the end and how it all came together in the end was beautiful. Thank you so much

Thanks for the lovely ask, and sorry about the wait! I went with the “I can’t believe you” scene:)

For this chapter, and the Billy ‘twist’, hopefully the audience would still be unsure about Billy’s motivations, right up until Red drops out of the ceiling and says “nice shot”. I wanted it to be believable that Billy might have sold them all out if he’d had a good enough reason to, that reason being getting out of Bogue’s employ. I’d hoped that would be just believable enough to work as a ‘con the audience’ moment, although if no one fell for it, you are all genre-savvy readers and I’m not too put out about it haha. But what about Sam and Goody getting arrested??? Read on for the behind-the-scenes!

“I can’t believe you.”

“Goody –”

“I cannot. Believe you.”

Let’s play a game where we see how many italics I use in the following conversation lol

The two armed guards escorted Sam and Goodnight through the halls, their rifle butts digging into their backs. But Goodnight could barely feel them he was fuming so hard.

“I didn’t think he’d –”

“You weren’t thinking at all!”

Writing Goody chewing people out is immense fun, and I’m not sure why lol but he’s entertaining when ‘righteously indignant’

“Hey!” said one of the guards as they passed another group of security, prodding Goodnight in the back with his gun. “Keep it moving.”

Goodnight clamped his mouth shut furiously as they walked through the halls. The taller of the guards went ahead and pushed open a door to the outside, leading them into an parking lot for the loading dock, empty at this time of night. And the second the door swung shut behind them, Goodnight was twisting his hands out of the pair of fake handcuffs, and swinging around murderously to Sam.

I’m really not sure how many people actually fell for the whole ‘twist’ but I hope the fake handcuffs made people sit up straighter like ‘oooh!’:P

“I am going to kill you, Sam Chisolm!”

Sam worked his wrists out of his own handcuffs, actually looking sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I didn’t think he’d get that mad.”

Goodnight let out a hysterical laugh and threw up his hands.

“Well what was your master plan if he did? Nothing! Jesus Christ, if Faraday hadn’t stepped in when he did…and what kind of alternate universe have I stumbled into where Faraday has more good sense than you?!”

“Thanks man,” Faraday said amiably behind him, breathing hard as he pulled off his SWAT-style helmet.

“Fuck me, how do real guards wear these things?” said Vasquez who was doing the same beside him, wiping his brow.

okay and I hope this was another ‘ayyyyy!’ moment lol. While I didn’t want to copy the whole SWAT team ruse from the original Ocean’s 11 for the actual heist (because that’s unoriginal) I did want to pay homage to it. And I thought Faraday and Vas would be good candidates for anonymous burly SWAT team members. And I hope this moment was at least somewhat surprising and satisfying lol

Sam looked like he was about to ask them something but Goodnight jabbed a finger in his chest, eyes blazing.

“Oh I am not done with you,” he said to Sam, and Faraday and Vasquez looked at each other and started backing slowly away from them, the boots of their guard costumes clunking heavily.

lol, subtle

“Goody, I’m sorry –”

“Sorry?! For what? Nearly giving me a heart attack? Or for being a goddamn idiot and deciding to give the bad guy a speech! Who does that? Christ man, even I know how to keep my mouth shut when we’re almost out!”

Goodnight has watched his share of movies and is much more genre-savvy than Sam lol. But I needed that link to the movie of Sam losing his cool

“He started talking about family and I just got mad!”

“Well no wonder you don’t want to make jobs personal if you’re gonna act like a damn hooligan every time! Tell me, Samuel, was it personal enough for you when he had a gun to your head?”

There’s this wonderful moment in Ocean’s 11 where Carl Reiner addresses Danny as “Daniel” in a beautifully warning tone, and the ‘Samuel’ here is my own little personal callback to it

“Well I didn’t think there’d be a gun down there now, did I?” Sam protested indignantly. And then his forehead creased. “Hey, did you know Billy was going to have a gun?”

This fic is peppered with references to other heist movies, and Sam’s general disapproval of using guns comes from The Italian Job. It was also a convenient link for why Goodnight’s character probably felt comfortable working with him post job-gone-wrong

“No,” Goodnight said honestly. Billy had shown up right on time, exactly as they’d planned, ready to ‘catch them in the act’. But the gun hadn’t been in the plan. Sam didn't like guns on jobs and he'd told Billy to just corner them without one, but Billy must have not wanted to chance it. He’d certainly seemed regretful though when he was apologizing for it, right before calling Bogue –

My rather abrupt explanation for the cliffhanger at the end of chapter 9, all like ‘HEY GUYS, HERE’S WHY THEY WERE STILL ACTING SURPRISED WHEN THEY SAW BILLY, IT WAS JUST BECAUSE OF THE GUN, DID I FOOL ANY OF YOU??’ lol honestly this fic probably works best if you read it all in one go, but there was no way I was going to write the whole thing before posting, given how long it was

“Oh god, Billy…” Goodnight said, his face going white at them having left Billy down there with Bogue probably still in a murderous rage.

“ – is fine,” Vasquez said from over by the wall where he was tapping on a series of screens while working his way out of his fake SWAT suit at the same time. “He and Red are running the money through the ducts now.”

not even pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping lol. Also how many screens does Vasquez even have on him?? Lol let’s pretend they’re small screens that...fit together somehow. I have no image what kind of set up he’s working on here but wtv

Goodnight immediately let out a breath, his legs suddenly feeling weak. “Oh thank god.”

Vasquez touched a finger to his ear, listening on one of his other lines, and nodded. “Red says that Billy says the gun was empty anyways.”

Oh. They all relaxed at that, realizing they probably should have assumed that in the first place. But then Goody was whirling around at Sam again.

“See?” he said, waving his hands. “Billy has common sense. Where’s yours?”

“Goody…”

“Sam, you scared the hell out of me,” Goodnight said desperately.

“Goody.”

“What?”

“Thanks,” Sam said quietly. “For trying to get Bogue’s attention back to you down there anyways.”

“Not like it did much good –”

“But thank you. Really.”

Sam was looking at Goodnight with genuine gratitude for Goodnight’s attempts to save him from Bogue. Goodnight deflated.

“Yeah well,” he grumbled. “You went to prison and I didn’t. Least I could do.”

“You never owed me for that.”

“Well I especially don’t now.”

Sam genuinely doesn’t think Goodnight owes him, since he feels responsible for their last job getting derailed. But Goodnight is definitely still guilty, so narratively they did need something to balance the scales in their relationship, hence Goodnight attempting to get Sam off the hook and take the heat

Sam gave him a small smile and clapped him on the shoulder as he turned back to Vasquez and Faraday who were now in their black team outfits too. Vasquez was tapping away on a screen, and Faraday was fiddling with a keypad on another door that would bring them back into the casino. Both were acting like they hadn’t been eavesdropping on every word.

“Vas, how’re those files coming?”

“Almost done splicing the surveillance footage…” Vasquez said, voice muffled by a stylus between his teeth. “Saving…and sending…now.”

The ‘send the surveillance footage to the real FBI to pin the robbery on Bogue’ was a little haphazardly done of me but IN MY DEFENCE, THIS FIC HAD AN AWFUL LOT GOING ON IN IT. And I felt an elaborate explanation of them setting him up would have slowed the action down, especially at this stage in the game. The last act should be the briskest imo (oh what do you know, ‘briskest’ seems to be a word)

Sam nodded. “Alright. Red and Billy should have gotten about a quarter of the money through by now. Let’s go start putting it together.”

They nodded and went to the door Faraday was working on. He’d pulled out the wires from the keypad, rubbed them together, and the light blinked red then green. He held it open for them and Vasquez and Sam walked through. Goodnight was about to follow, but then he hesitated.

Faraday just ‘hot-wiring’ a door lol. I don’t know how technology works, but I’m not about to let that stop me

“Josh.”

Faraday glanced back curiously and Goodnight shuffled his feet a little.

“You come up with that suit-camera stuff down there on the fly?”

Faraday shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Can’t buy portrayals of ‘dumb Faraday’ tbh. He has a lot of bluster but I really like writing him as pretty sharp underneath

“Well it was,” Goodnight said quietly. And then he looked back up guiltily, and he and Faraday both spoke at the same time:

“Look, I’m sorry I snapped at you the other night –”

“Sorry I was such a dick to you on the last job –”

“– no really, I was being a jerk and shouldn’t have said all that –”

“ – and it was stupid of me to say that to Billy –”

“ – and I feel like I’ve misjudged you and –”

“ – and I still feel bad about the last time, really, but I was an asshole back then –“

“ – and you were great down there, really, and –”

“ – well, a bigger asshole back then, and –”

“ – and I just wanted to say sorry.”

I felt there had to be a proper reconciliation for them, given their tension in this fic. I can’t say I blame Goodnight for snapping at him in the earlier chapter, but I just like everybody to be friendssss

They stared at each other hesitantly, and then each cracked small smiles.

“Square?” Goodnight asked sticking out his hand.

“Square,” Faraday said relieved as he shook it. And then he took on a devilish grin as he yanked Goodnight towards him, catching him in a headlock.

oh you. Well it was sweet while it lasted lol

“Gerroff me –“

“Aww, Robicheaux, you do like me!”

“Not anymore –”

“Yo!” Vasquez said, sticking his head back out the door. “What’s the hold up?”

“We’re kissing and making up,” Faraday said, pressing a messy kiss to a squirming Goodnight’s forehead.

“Hot,” Vasquez said patiently. “Now would you get in here? We’re on the clock here, muchachos.”

idk why, but the flow of ‘“Hot,” Vasquez said patiently’ amuses me very much. He’s gonna have a lot to put up with ahead of him lol, but he’s extremely up for it

“Si, señor,” Faraday said smartly as he released Goodnight. And they all went back into the casino, getting ready for the final sprint.

side note, I’d liked to have worked in a side-plot where it turns out Faraday is completely fluent in Spanish lol, he just likes messing with people/being underestimated. But maybe I’ll save that for another fic:P

Thanks again for the ask!

#thanks again! I'm always open to these DVD commentary asks #asks #fiveelephantsonaturtle

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purple-possibilities · 7 years

Text

Sweet Surprises [A MadaKaka Valentine’s Day Special]

AN: Hey, it's me! The author who is never around. I decided to write something short for Valentine's Day, but it ran away from me. So enjoy this epic one-shot filled with nonsense and subtle (and not so subtle) foreshadowing. This takes place in the 2sb1sf verse, in the future after Madara and Kakashi get together. This is un-beta'd and not really edited at all, because I am so done with it.

This has also been posted on AO3, and clocks in at 8364 words.

Madara had a problem (when did he not, let’s be real). But for once, this was a problem he didn’t think he could solve on his own.

Tomorrow was Valentine’s Day.

It was a holiday that Konoha had adopted from the civilians, and as such, Madara had never celebrated it before—not that he’d ever had someone he wanted to celebrate it with. But now Madara did have someone, someone he wanted to show his love and appreciation for, and yet…

He didn’t know how to make chocolate.

Madara wasn’t sure why chocolates were the chosen gift of the day. Furthermore, he wasn’t sure why store-bought chocolate was considered an insult if given to someone very special to you. How in the blazes was everyone supposed to know how to make chocolate from scratch?

Women.

Madara blamed it on the unfair expectations society put on civilian women. Why the holiday was arranged around women proving to their lovers (or hopeful, potential lovers) that they were excellent chefs was beyond Madara. Not that he didn’t understand the underlying premise—the idea that a man would only want a woman who was an excellent cook—but why women perpetuated this stupid expectation was the baffling part.

On White Day, exactly one month later, men were expected to return the women’s chocolatey affection in the form of an expensive gift—yet another stupid, socially constructed idea. The woman proves that she’s an excellent homemaker while the man proves he has money to provide for her.

It was the most civilian thing he could think of.

Still, Hashirama had encouraged the ninja of Konoha to take part in the holiday. Madara believed this was mostly because he wanted to receive chocolates from Mito (and his secretary, and his assistant, and basically every kunoichi under village employ), but that was neither here nor there. Madara couldn’t care less about what Hashirama and Mito did in their relationship (he would rather be completely ignorant of the entire affair, to be honest. Hashirama was loud).

What Madara did care about was Kakashi, and how this stupid holiday might affect their relationship.

The women were supposed to make the chocolate for the men. This already was not a very inclusive holiday. Knowing that neither would receive a gift on this ridiculous Valentine’s Day (and who or what in the blazes was this Valentine?) Madara took it upon himself to be the gift giver. It made sense to him; men were supposed to receive gifts of chocolate, so he would make Kakashi some chocolates.

Madara did not acknowledge to himself that he was hoping Kakashi would get him something too.

So Madara did what he always did when he had a seemingly unsolveable problem.

He went to Izuna.

Only, Izuna was in an uncharacteristically foul mood.

“Who even cares about this stupid civilian holiday?!” Izuna exclaimed when Madara posed his query. Izuna looked a mess; his hair was loose and starting to frizz, appearing more like Madara’s own messy locks. Izuna had been destroying innocent training posts out on the Uchiha’s private training grounds when Madara found him.

Madara couldn’t help but smirk at the scene. It took a lot to get Izuna riled up, unless you found the right buttons. Madara knew of two very sensitive buttons which never failed to get Izuna in a rut. It appeared that at least one of them had been pushed.

“Just because you’re worried about whether you’re going to get anything from—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Izuna interrupted, venom dripping from his words.

Madara’s eyebrows rose in surprise. This was more serious than he had thought.

“Perhaps I’ll just ask Tatsumi for help.”

Izuna scoffed, muttering “Whatever,” before going back to destroying the field with vigour.

Madara, very smartly, decided retreat was his smartest option.

Luckily, he found Tatsumi in her kitchen making chocolates with her niece, Michika.

“Well well,” Madara said as he took in the scene. There were blocks of dark chocolate on the counter, an open jar of coco powder (which seemed to be accidentally coating the countertop as well), and a large pot of heavy cream warming on the stove. A stack of metal bowls was set off to the side. Michika was carefully cutting the chocolate into small pieces while Tatsumi was stirring butter into the cream. “I can’t believe my eyes.”

“Oh shut it, Dara-chan,” Tatsumi said, without taking her eyes off the stove. The same stove Kakashi had modified to light itself several years ago, near the beginning of their friendship. Madara stifled down the urge to yell at Tatsumi for using that dreaded nickname in the face of what he would have to ask.

“Who are you making chocolates for, sweet imouto?” Madara’s tone was mocking, though he was genuinely curious.

“I’m making the chocolates. Ba-sensei is just helping,” Michika piped up.

Madara’s eyes widened in confusion. “You? Aren’t you too young for such things? And why isn’t your mo—” Madara was cut off by a wooden spoon flying at his head. He managed to catch it, though just barely. The warning glare he caught in Tatsumi’s eyes at almost mentioning MIchika’s mother made Madara realise that changing the subject was a smart idea.

“I didn’t realise you were a chocolatier,” he went with instead, smartly returning the spoon to his cousin.

“It doesn’t take a genius to follow a recipe,” Tatsumi said with a pointed look, one that reminded Madara of exploding stoves and burned down kitchens. The flush that bloomed on his cheeks was from the heat of the kitchen, not embarrassment. No, Madara was never embarrassed.

“So, why are you here?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

This time, Madara could not deny the deepening flush on his cheeks was from embarrassment (even though he never got embarrassed, of course). He had hoped to catch Tatsumi alone, but he could see that would not be happening for a long time.

“IwanttomakeKakashichocolatesforValentine’sDay,” Madara said in a rush.

Thankfully, Tatsumi was either in a good mood, or she was too busy focusing to make him repeat himself.

Instead, she just laughed.

“Awww, Dara-chan is so cute, isn’t he, Michika?”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

“Don’t worry, we’ll help you, Dara-ji!”

“YOU GOT HER SAYING IT TOO?”

“You can blame Kakashi for that, actually.”

“That bastard!” Madara scowled.

“Still want to make him chocolates?” Tatsumi teased, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Madara crossed his arms and pouted. His family was terrible and Kakashi was somehow the worst of the bunch.

The thought of Kakashi as family, however, filled him with warmth. Of course he still wanted to make Kakashi chocolates. Madara nodded confidently.

“Well in that case, you have a problem.”

“What?”

“Did you forget that Kakashi doesn’t like sweets?”

“Fu—”

Madara never got a chance to finish that thought, as the wooden spoon came flying at him again. He caught it once more, and warily gave it back to Tatsumi. When she noticed his downtrodden expression, she sighed, putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll figure something out.”

Across the village, Kakashi was doing what he always did when Hashirama got over excited about something.

Kakashi was hiding with Tobirama in one of Tobirama’s hidden labs. Well, hidden from Hashirama, anyways.

Usually, Tobirama was good company. He was quiet and thoughtful, but mostly quiet. When Tobirama was working on one of his projects, it was impossible to engage him in anything but. He might mutter to himself from time to time, but Kakashi actually found that comforting. It was less lonely.

Kakashi enjoyed hiding in Tobirama’s lab, reading Icha Icha, or even just dozing lightly, Tobirama’s puttering and muttering serving as a reminder that he wasn’t alone. Kakashi even enjoyed discussing Tobirama’s theories on occasion. Trying to figure out how to make a jutsu work, or how to perfect one that already existed had become a pastime Kakashi grew to enjoy. It was a measure of peace he had not felt back in his own time, not since he lost his father.

But Tobirama’s presence was decidedly not comforting today.

While Tobirama could be calm and quiet and thoughtful, he also had a nasty temper. Although Tobirama was much harder to rile up than Madara, when the right button was pushed, Tobirama could be a right brat. And by the way Tobirama was stomping around his lab, flitting from experiment to experiment unable to concentrate, Kakashi was pretty sure something had managed to catch Tobirama’s ire.

But Kakashi did not spend too much time worrying about what had Tobirama all riled up. Kakashi had his own problem, one he never thought he would have.

Should he make Madara Valentine’s Day chocolates?

This wasn’t Kakashi’s first Valentine’s Day. He had endured plenty in the past… err, future. He wasn’t sure what it was about him that made so many his classmates admire him, and had always ended up spending the day avoiding his potential paramours. Just the scent of chocolate was enough to make him disappear, regardless of the day. He even used to skip training with his team on Valentine’s Day; it left him too exposed, and Minato used to make him accept the gifts. Then he would have to go around on White Day to return the gesture (though he always made sure to buy the cheapest, most terrible of the gifts to deter any interest. It didn’t help).

Even after his sensei had died, Kakashi made a habit of hiding away on the fourteenth of February, partially out of habit, but also because it brought up too many bad memories. He didn’t have a teammate to bring him a gift, or a sensei to make him accept it. He had always wanted to be left alone on that day, but the price he paid for such a wish was too high.

Just another example of how badly Kakashi had managed to fuck up his own life.

This year was different. Kakashi hadn’t thought it was possible, but he had a family. He had two brothers and a sort of sister, he had friends he treasured and could rely on, and he was…

He was in love.

Kakashi hadn’t thought it was possible for him to fall in love, partially because he knew he didn’t deserve it, but mostly because he had never been interested in someone like that before. For all the people who had confessed to him, Kakashi had never even remotely felt a connection in return. No matter how beautiful or handsome, how caring or kind, how skilled or impressive, Kakashi had never felt romantic or even sexual attraction.

It wasn’t that he never felt arousal—Icha Icha and many nights with his hands (and sometimes a clone or two) was proof enough. It wasn’t that he didn’t desire that sort of closeness when he wasn’t lying to or hating himself—Icha Icha had proven that too. But there just wasn’t anyone Kakashi had felt that way for.

When his father died, Kakashi closed off his heart. While the time with his genin team had eventually helped, their deaths, one after another, proved the change was too little too late. While Tenzou and Itachi had begun to become his new family, he was pulled into the past and lost that too. It seemed as if every time Kakashi got close to someone, they would inevitably be taken away.

Until now.

Kakashi had spent more years in the past with his new family than he had spent with any of the others. He used to wish that he would be sent back to the future, but now he prayed he could stay. It was that fear of leaving that had made him resistant to Madara’s pursuit initially, but as the years passed and so did the actual past (Kakashi was no history buff, but he knew enough about the Warring States and Founders Era to know that his presence and interference had made major changes to the history of the Shinobi Nations) Kakashi’s attitude had changed.

Kakashi had grown and changed, and dare he think it, healed in his time in the past. Kakashi hadn’t thought he would find happiness, hadn’t thought he deserved happiness, but that all had changed with his new family beating the self-loathing out of him. Not that Kakashi didn’t still hate himself to an extent—he didn’t think he would ever be able to forgive himself for some things—but the weight of his failures was easier to carry. A lot of that had to do with his new brothers, but Madara had also played a huge part. Kakashi could not begin to express how grateful he was to have them all in his life, but he wanted to try.

Which brought him to his current issue.

Kakashi wasn’t sure what the protocol was for Valentine’s Day when the two who were in a relationship were both men. He also wasn’t sure whether he should be making chocolates for his new family, considering that wasn’t part of the tradition. The women in his life were supposed to give him something, and then he would have to return their gifts on White Day. But Kakashi did not feel like that was enough. Plus, that excluded his brothers from the exchange, which left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Least of his issues was the fact that Kakashi had never made chocolates before. Any idiot could follow a recipe…

Well, except Madara.

Kakashi chuckled at the memory of Madara’s kitchen on fire, the first time he had tried to make Kakashi dinner. And every other time he tried cooking since.

(It was universally agreed upon that Madara was no longer allowed to have a stove in his house. Izuna had to visit Tatsumi if he wanted to cook, not that Izuna minded).

The sound of Kakashi’s amusement, however, caught Tobirama’s attention, and not in a good way.

“What in the blazes are you laughing at!”

Kakashi, who had forgotten about Tobirama and his uncharacteristic agitation, jumped at the sudden break of his reverie.

Tobirama’s pale skin was flushed a bright red from his anger, making the stripes on his cheeks practially disappear. His eyes narrowed to slits in the glare he usually reserved for Madara or Izuna. Kakashi had never had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of that look, nor had Hashirama, despite how idiotic he could be. Tobirama usually glared at them with a sort of resigned fondness, despite whatever they had done to upset him. For Tobirama to be this wound up, it had to be something serious.

“Maa-maa, Tobi-nii is so mad today…”

Tobirama would never admit to rolling his eyes at the nickname Kakashi had adapted from Hashirama, as such an act was ‘below’ him. Tobirama really had far too much in common with the two Uchiha he harboured an exceptional hatred for.

“I am not mad!”

The venom with which his words were delivered proved otherwise.

Kakashi sighed, putting his book away. While years ago (or years to come, really) Kakashi would have vanished at the first sight of someone in the throes of emotional turmoil, he was different now. Instead of avoiding emotional confrontations, Kakashi now tried—albeit awkwardly—to help.

“Perhaps you are worrying whether a certain someone is going to give you chocolates tomorrow?”

The heavy scroll thrown at his head proved, once again, that Kakashi was not very good at being comforting. At least he was quick enough to catch the projectile.

“Or maybe you’re worried someone else—”

This scroll was somehow larger and heavier, and the force of the throw pushed Kakashi back when he caught it.

“Does that mean you don’t want to talk about it?”

This time Tobirama leveled him with the Glare of Exasperated Affection. Perhaps Kakashi wasn’t so horrible at comforting people after all.

Who was he kidding? This was a job for Hashirama.

Tobirama sighed, brushing a hand through his uncharacteristically tousled hair. “Go make Madara some damn chocolates and leave me alone.”

Well, that at least answered that question.

“I’ll tell Hashirama where to find you—”

“DON’T YOU DARE, OTOUTO!”

Kakashi could not help his laughter as he left, even as various brushes, an ink stone, and several more scrolls followed in his wake.

Madara did not sleep a wink that night. He was too worried over whether or not Kakashi would enjoy the gift he had spent the entire afternoon and part of the evening making.

Okay, so he watched Tatsumi make it, as he was hopeless when it came to cooking. But he did help chop things, and pass her bowls and spoons and ingredients, which was as good as it was going to get when it came to Madara managing to cook anything.

It didn’t help that he could hear Izuna pacing up and down the hallways all night, still too agitated to sit, let alone lie down and fall asleep.

Valentine’s Day was a bad idea—one of Hashirama’s many terrible ideas.

Still, Madara was excited.

There was something about a day dedicated to expressing your love for someone that had Madara’s heart filling with warmth. Sure, he was dedicated to spending everyday loving Kakashi as it was, but taking the time to explicitly focus on it had the romantic in Madara preening.

It did not stop the nerves, however.

Kakashi had always been flighty, and it took years of chasing before he would stop for a short chat, let alone entertain the idea of dating Madara. While that flightiness had decreased significantly over the years, and even more so after they started dating, there were still things that would send Kakashi running.

Kakashi had problems with both emotional and physical intimacy; when faced with either, Kakashi's knee-jerk response was to disappear in a puff of smoke. The first few times that happened after they had gotten together, Madara feared he had lost Kakashi for good. Each time Kakashi returned—an apology delivered in a small gift, or a sweet kiss, or (Madara’s favourite) a story about Kakashi’s history—Madara felt more confidant in their relationship.

But each new thing filled Madara with anxiety. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Kakashi, but there were just so many things that did—things that wouldn’t hurt someone with a normal past—and Madara often found himself accidentally pressing on old wounds.

Each step closer seemed to require breaking down another barrier, and that tended to hurt the both of them. While they did end up closer in the end, Madara wished that they didn’t need to fight and hurt and bleed for every step forward.

When dawn broke, Madara was gone, his carefully wrapped gift in hand. The plain, circular box was covered in a red, silk handkerchief, patterned with small Uchiha fans. Madara hid the gift in the hip pouch Kakashi had gifted him for his last birthday.

In order to avoid any awkwardness, Madara decided he would deliver the gift to Kakashi’s room and run. Not the bravest course of action, but Madara consoled himself with the thought that it was actually something very ‘Kakashi.’ This way, Kakashi could open the gift privately, and choose whether or not he wanted to acknowledge Madara’s efforts, and how he wanted to react.

Madara was very proud of this plan. While he had no doubt that Kakashi would awaken at the intrusion to his bedroom, Kakashi was known to feign sleep to avoid situations—just as he often feigned ignorance or inattention when he wasn’t sure how to deal with things. Madara was counting on this habit for things to go smoothly.

All in all, Madara thought it would be the best way to deliver the gift, especially when considering Kakashi’s comfort and tendency to avoid emotional intimacy, even now. When Kakashi had given Madara his birthday gift, it was delivered through the post, despite the fact that they lived less than five minutes away from each other, if one took to the rooftops.

Madara was not dropping off the gift and running because he was afraid of watching Kakashi’s reaction. No, not at all.

Unfortunately, Madara’s plan was foiled when he got to the home Kakashi shared with Tobirama (the duo had moved out after Hashirama married Mito. Hashirama was Loud). How could such a simple plan fail, you ask? Because Kakashi wasn’t there. Instead, when Madara landed on Kakashi’s windowsill, he was greeted by the shoji screen to Kakashi’s room slamming open and the irate face of one Senju Tobirama.

“What do you think you’re doing here, Madara?” Tobirama practically spat, his glare at full throttle.

Madara was taken aback; Tobirama usually ignored him, or affected a purposely indifferent façade in his presence now a days. It was only Izuna who would automatically raise Tobirama’s hackles, at least in recent months. While Tobirama and Madara were far from being friends, they managed to get along well enough for missions and during council meetings. Tobirama hadn’t reacted too violently towards Madara since they stopped meeting each other on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Furthermore, Madara was being stealthy and quiet, as to give the impression that he was doing his best not to awaken Kakashi. So for Tobirama to have sensed him so quickly, he must have actively been infusing his charka. In other words…

“Were you hoping for someone else?” Madara did not even try to hide his smirk.

Tobirama’s glare grew even more venomous, if that were at all possible.

Madara chuckled. “You’re looking very sour today… perhaps you were hoping for a certain someone to stop by with something sweet?”

Even Madara could admit the pun was in bad taste, which is why he stopped himself from laughing when he saw how much angrier that last comment made Tobirama.

Tobirama took a visible breath to calm himself before deigning to reply.

“Kakashi isn’t here.”

“So I noticed.”

When Madara did not make to leave, Tobirama got even angrier.

“Leave.”

Madara bit back the “Or what?” on his tongue. He and Tobirama might have a mutual distaste for one another, but Madara was not so cruel as to taunt Tobirama when he was obviously upset (not anymore, at least). Still, as he turned to leave, he couldn’t help himself from offering one last comment.

“Should I send Hashirama over to cheer you up?”

The kunai Tobirama threw managed to trim a small section of Madara’s hair. Luckily, Madara’s hair was so messy, the difference wouldn’t be noticeable.

With Kakashi not at home, and Madara banned from leaving his gift there by an irate, kunai-wielding older brother, he had no choice but to find his lover and deliver the gift in person.

While it used to be nigh impossible to track Kakashi down, over the years Madara had learnt of every nook and cranny Kakashi liked to hide in. It was astonishing to learn just how many secret places Kakashi had found to disappear to in the newly formed Konoha. It was as if Kakashi had lived there all his life, and had years to find the most beautiful or most private places (oftentimes, both) to relax. Madara attributed this to Kakashi’s excellent tracking abilities—another talent added to a never-ending list of things Madara loved about him.

Though there were many places Kakashi liked to hide, Madara had learnt not just of their locations, but where Kakashi liked to go during various times of day, or in different moods. Madara was proud to boast that he was the best at finding Kakashi—well, if you excluded Tobirama and his chakra sensing ability. Or the Inuzuka, when Kakashi wasn’t suppressing his scent. Or—

That wasn’t the point.

The point was that Madara very quickly found Kakashi sitting in his favourite morning spot; up on the mountain cradling the rear of the village, next to the Hokage Monument.

Strangely, Kakashi always sat on a space about two and a half giant heads to the right of Hashirama’s stone face. There was a small nook roughly parallel with the bottom of Hashirama’s stone mouth that Kakashi could often be found reading in. It was only big enough for one adult male and maybe a child to fit in. But Kakashi was thin despite his height and Madara—though not one for cuddling—didn’t mind sharing his space if it was with Kakashi.

While usually Madara would make his way down to that nook and crowd Kakashi (not that Kakashi ever complained—seriously, anyways) today he was hesitant. There would be no pretenses to hide behind, just a simple gift and the proclamation of love. While that shouldn’t be such a big deal, Madara couldn’t help but worry that he would mess things up and ruin what should be a joyful day.

Madara stood above Kakashi’s nook, frozen in an uncertainty he only ever felt concerning Kakashi. He knew that Kakashi knew he was here; while Kakashi wasn’t a chakra sensor, Madara was often surprised by just strong Kakashi’s sense of smell was. Which meant the longer he waited, the more he would seem like a fool. It was that thought which got Madara moving.

When he did climb down, however, he was surprised to see that Kakashi was not there. In his place, however, was a square box covered in a two-toned silk cloth—the outside being grey with red swirls, while the inside was the inverse. Madara found himself blushing at the implications of the red and black wrapping. While Madara had gone neutral by wrapping his gift in his clan colours, Kakashi’s sent a very deliberate message—I want you.

Madara sat down in the crevice slowly before reaching down to pick up the gift with both hands. He let the gift rest in his lap, then carefully undid the knot which kept the wrapping together. As the fabric slipped away, he was met with a simple, brown dessert box. He lifted the lid and was greeted by the sight of…

“Sushi?”

There were nine maki rolls in a three by three grid. Only instead of fish, each was filled with fruit and chocolate. Carefully lifting one roll from the box, Madara noticed that seaweed which would usually encircle the rolls was chocolate, with a dusting of coco powder on the outside, presumably to stop them from sticking to each other. When he popped the maki roll in his mouth, Madara hummed his appreciation, enjoying how the bitterness of the dark chocolate paired with the sweetness of the fruit—a mango, in this case—and how the sweetened rice melded everything together.

Kakashi was one hell of a chef.

But more than the deliciousness of the gift, Madara was flattered by the effort. Kakashi knew inarizushi was his favourite food, and was touched that Kakashi would base his gift off of that information. Madara took a moment to enjoy another two before closing the box, carefully folding the silk and putting it away in his hip pouch.

“Kakashi, I know you’re there,” Madara spoke to the ether, willing his lover to appear so that he could thank Kakashi properly.

There was only silence.

“Kakashi?” Madara tried again. Kakashi enjoyed teasing, and Madara wouldn’t put it past him to be hiding somewhere, watching everything and waiting until Madara was fuming to come down. Kakashi did so enjoy riling Madara up.

“You’re going to make me chase you around all day, aren’t you?”

Little did Madara know, somewhere above him a Kakashi-bunshin smirked before dispelling himself.

It was going to be a long day.

It had been such an impossibly long day.

Kakashi was nowhere to be found, although he was leaving a suspicious trail of chocolates in his wake. Not only were there more of the chocolate maki rolls in all of Kakashi’s favourite hiding places, everyone who had seen Kakashi that day was gifted with a small box of chocolates themselves—though the number of people who had seen him was small.

It seemed that Kakashi had first stopped by Tatsumi’s clinic. He had gone there under the pretense of picking up his own Valentine’s gift. Tatsumi had given him a chocolate Sharingan to ‘complete the set,’ she explained, laughing at her own joke a little too hard and a little too long—even in her retelling of the events. When he shunshin-ed away (since he could not leave like a normal person), a small box of chocolates was left in his wake, with a card reading “I had extra.”

When Madara asked about his own gift, Tatsumi claimed that helping him make Kakashi’s gift was her present to Madara. He couldn’t argue with that, though he was disappointed she didn’t save any of the chocolates she was making with Michika for him. They had smelled delicious, and there were a lot.

How many homemade chocolates did one little girl need? Madara made a note to look into his niece’s possible love life. She might be in her teens, but she was too young to date. Madara would make sure to enforce that.

As it turned out, Kakashi’s next stop was to see Izuna. Kakashi’s excuse was that he had heard Izuna was in poor spirits. Izuna of course denied this, and they ended up in a bit of a scuffle. The fight ended quickly, although not without one casualty; Tajima’s favourite mug was broken. Kakashi had disappeared before the mug could hit him, leaving another box of chocolates behind. This too had a note, reading “In case you don’t get any.”

While Madara had assumed the note would have left Izuna in a rotten mood the rest of the day, he was surprisingly chipper when Madara stopped by. Izuna was carefully gluing the mug back together, occasionally sending an adoring glance and a dopey grin to a box of chocolate truffles on the counter, which Izuna absolutely refused to let Madara touch. In fact, Izuna became positively beastly when Madara even got close to the gift. Not wanting to ruin his brother’s good mood, Madara decided to leave swiftly.

Madara was quickly becoming frustrated. He didn’t want to admit it, but he needed help. There was one person in the village who could find Kakashi in an instant, but Madara was not yet desperate enough for that measure. Still, his only other option was Hashirama, and, well, Hashirama was loud. It was sure to be a… vocal Valentine’s Day for the Hokage, and Madara, quite frankly, was not eager to risk it. Still, Tobirama had tried to kill him that morning, and Madara had a suspicion that Tobirama’s day was not liable to improve.

So Madara had gone to see Hashirama.

Hashirama was in the Hokage’s office (thank the Sage) alone (thank all the gods) and stuck under a pile of chocolates. Hashirama’s smile was ever wider than usual. A new person had been stopping by his office every few minutes to deliver him another gift of chocolates, and he was ecstatic.

“You do realise you will need to buy them all gifts on White Day, and therefore will need to remember all their names,” Madara reminded when he saw the pile of empty chocolate boxes carelessly thrown in the direction of the small garbage (it was already overfilled). The reminder sent Hashirama into one of his depressive fits, prompting a very reluctant, irate, and somewhat flustered Madara to help him make a list of who sent what.

Madara insisted Hashirama be the one to dig through the trash, however, volunteering himself to be the one to jot down the names and the item.

“Did you get anything for Valentine’s Day?” Hashirama asked, tone a little too casual. Hashirama was horrible at subtly.

“No one has given me any gifts.” Madara’s words weren’t true in the spirit of honesty, but they were not a lie. Kakashi hadn’t technically given Madara the gifts, despite putting them in places Madara would find them.

Hashirama opened his mouth to say something, but held himself back.

They sat in silence for a moment, Madara’s eyes scanning the various gift boxes to see if he could spot one similar to the boxes Kakashi had gifted Izuna and Tatsumi. He noticed the familiar packaging near the bottom of Hashirama’s trash bin, meaning either Kakashi had gotten to the office first, or Hashirama had chosen to eat Kakashi’s gift right away.

Finally, Madara gathered the courage to ask the question he had come to Hashirama for.

“Have you seen Kakashi today?” Madara affected complete, detached nonchalant. He was not blushing, not at all. His friends and close family knew of his relationship with Kakashi, and even if they didn’t, it was completely ordinary for a friend to ask about a friend. On any other day, it would sound like any other offhand question. Today, on a day meant for romance, however, it sounded anything but.

Hashirama leaned forward, a comical leer on his face. “Did you make him any chocolates?”

Madara turned as red as his Sharingan. “I—wha—you—nuh—” Madara sputtered. “I’m not allowed near a stove, how would I make him any chocolates?”

“Hmm… there weren’t any reports of exploding kitchens today or yesterday…”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!”

Hashirama raised his eyebrows.

“Okay it was three times, but I do remember you being there for the third one, so that wasn’t just my fault.”

“I was trying to teach you how to use the stove! You’re the one who used the Katon jutsu that made it explode in the first place!”

“You said it was just like cooking over a fire!”

“Yes, cooking over a fire, not that it was the same as lighting one!”

“You’re a terrible teacher, for not making that clear!”

Thankfully, the door opened and their argument was interrupted before Hashirama could start moping again.

“Mito, my love!” Hashirama rushed up from the floor to embrace his wife, picking her up and spinning them both in a circle. She smiled fondly at him and his antics. “Are you here to give me another present?”

“You’re so greedy,” Madara murmured to himself, though by the half-smile Mito shot in his direction, he was sure she heard. Hashirama remained oblivious.

“I actually came here to see Madara,” Mito said, motioning for Hashirama to put her down, ignoring his pout when she stepped out of his arms. She pulled a small box from the sleeve of her white kimono. It was wrapped in a plain pink cloth, and she offered it to him with two hands, a smile, and a soft “Happy Valentine’s Day, Madara.”

Madara returned the smile with a small nod of acknowledgement, taking the gift in both hands before putting it away in his hip pouch to open later.

“I’m surprised to see you without Kakashi today,” Mito said, her voice managing to convey the authentic nonchalance which Hashirama had a problem with. Still, considering the day and the gift she had just given Madara, the effect was lost.

“He’s looking for him!” Hashirama piped in before Madara could offer a more aloof response, one which would not end with his ears turning red.

“Oh? I just saw him, with Tobirama.”

“With Tobirama?” Madara did not even try to hide the sneer at the name. “How can anyone stand to be near him?”

“Now Madara, that’s not fair. I really wish you two would try to get along,” Hashirama said.

Madara huffed, crossing his arms. “I saw him this morning, and he’s somehow grumpier than his usual unpleasant self. I was being perfectly courteous, and he tried to kill me. I’d wager even you avoided him yesterday. And it’s all thanks to your insistence on participating in this ridiculous holiday.”

Hashirama looked sheepish. “I thought it would help…”

“Tobirama seemed perfectly content when I saw him,” Mito said.

“What?”

“Really?”

“In fact, I might even go so far as to say he was chipper,” she continued.

“What.” Madara didn’t even try to make it sound like a question this time.

“Yes! I knew it would work!” Hashirama said as he jumped and pumped his fist in victory.

Madara—accustomed to Hashirama’s antics—crossed his arms and shook his head in the negative. “That’s impossible.”

“What? Tobi can be happy!” Hashirama insisted with a pout.

“While I do maintain my stance that Tobirama is an automaton who can only experience a limited range of emotion—”

“Madara!”

“I just saw Izuna, who was—oh no.”

“Oh no what?” Hashirama looked positively bewildered, but Mito seemed to catch on quickly.

“Oh no,” Mito echoed.

“Oh no what?” Hashirama repeated, and then it clicked. “Oh no, no no no!”

Mito and Madara nodded solemnly.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen!”

“I told you this civilian holiday was a bad idea.”

“But-but love and chocolates and love!” Hashirama’s head sunk under the weight of his sadness.

Mito shook her head in exasperation, putting a soothing hand on her husband’s bicep.

“You can’t fix everything, Hashi.”

Hashirama turned and swept his wife into his arms, holding her to his chest like one would a teddy bear. His head rested on her shoulder, and she very patiently pet his hair. She locked eyes with Madara and motioned with a quick jerk of her head that he should leave. Madara—who very much wanted to get away from the emotional Hashirama—wasted no time in disappearing.

While Madara was reluctant to go visit Tobirama—more so after the alarming news—if that’s where Kakashi was, that’s where Madara would go.

There was only one place Tobirama would be found at this time of day, and that was in his office at the Senju clan compound. Tobirama had several offices, just as he had several labs, each with its own specific purpose. Madara didn’t understand why Tobirama just didn’t do all his work in the same place; while Madara did have a home office for more personal matters, his office at the Hokage Tower was more than enough to complete his various responsibilities. Tobirama, on the other hand, moved from office to office throughout the day, occasionally disappearing into one of his labs or the training field.

When Madara arrived at Tobirama’s office, he was dismayed to see just how smug Tobirama appeared. There was even a little smirk curling the corners of his lips. There was a box of chocolate truffles proudly displayed in the middle of his desk, though they were very obviously not for guest consumption if the glare Tobirama served Madara when he looked at them was any indication. There was a second, smaller box of chocolates on Tobirama’s desk as well, the same size and shape as the ones Kakashi had been leaving in his wake.

Tobirama’s smirk widened when he caught Madara looking at that box.

“Kakashi isn’t here.” Tobirama’s deep voice was almost teasing, though his words were certainly intended to be mocking. Tobirama would only sound like that if he were in a really good mood.

Madara heaved a sigh, palming his face in his hand. While he was wary as to the cause of Tobirama’s levity, he was also somewhat grateful; Tobirama would hopefully be more cooperative.

“I can see that.” Madara could not let the subtle taunt go without a touch of his own. “Would you happen to know where he went?”

Tobirama leaned back in his chair, looking even smugger than he had before.

Perhaps this was a bad idea?

There was a tense silence while Tobirama seemed to appraise Madara’s request. The only sound in the room was the repetitive drumming of Tobirama’s fingers on his desk. Then Tobirama closed his eyes, and Madara felt the hairs on his arms stand on edge.

“He’s by the Hokage Monument,” Tobirama answered simply, and then returned to his paperwork.

To say Madara was surprised would be an understatement. Not that Kakashi had returned to the Hokage Monument—that sounded exactly like something that troll would pull—but that Tobirama had answered without a fuss.

This Tobirama was a strange creature. Madara was not looking forward to the eventual blowout.

Up in his favourite nook, roughly two giant stone heads to the right of Hashirama’s face and just about parallel with Hashirama’s mouth, Kakashi reclined comfortably, reading Icha Icha. He felt Tobirama’s chakra touch his—something Kakashi was only capable of noticing from how familiar he was with Tobirama’s chakra and the frequency with which Tobirama used this technique to identify him—which was the signal that Madara would be stopping by shortly. Kakashi briefly wondered if he should disappear and make Madara chase him around a little more—it was one of Kakashi’s favourite pass times—but Kakashi was excited to see his lover.

Today was such a change from who Kakashi was before he ended up in the past, and he revelled in it. If Gai could see Kakashi now, he would be sobbing and making long-winded speeches about the Springtime of Youth and the Lotus of Love Blooming once more, even after Enduring the Harshest of Winters.

For once, the thought of his past didn’t drive Kakashi to melancholy. While he did miss his friends and comrades—and Kakashi would have been the most surprised if someone were to tell him he would one day miss his Eternal Rival, of all people—Kakashi knew instinctively that they would be happy for his happiness.

Kakashi hoped that the changes he made in the past would shape a better future, one where children weren’t sent to fight wars and his friends all survived to live long, happy lives. Though the semantics were confusing—if he changed to future too much, would he even be born? If the future was different, would he even be sent to the past to propagate such a change?—Kakashi tried not to think too much about such things. Tobirama might lose sleep over the mechanics, but Kakashi had to stop thinking about it in order to actually live.

And Kakashi was so terribly reluctant to leave the life he was now living. For years he had felt as if he were only going through the motions, that his life meant nothing compared to his duty to the village he loved. Ironically, it was through being a part of the group who founded his village that Kakashi learnt how important life was. The village was formed to save lives, to protect children and each other—whether from enemy blades, or less sinister things, like famine and pestilence. Kakashi had learnt that his job as a Konoha shinobi was not to die for his village, but to live for it, for his friends and his family, and even the strangers who walked the streets had sworn to protect.

Today had really emphasized to Kakashi just how many people he now had in his life whom he loved, and who loved him back. While one could argue that it was important to show your love for others everyday—and it was, Kakashi had learnt—having a day where the focus was expressing that love warmed his heart in a way had not expected, nor had he ever experienced before.

While it was still hard for him to openly express his feelings—if he had to physically hand his gifts to anyone he might have melted from embarrassment—Kakashi had felt that, at least for once, he should try. He didn’t think his gratefulness to his new family could ever properly be expressed, and even if it were possible, he didn’t think he could possibly express it. But he had enjoyed trying, even as embarrassed as it made him.

Kakashi both dreaded and anticipated Madara’s arrival in equal parts. Though he did want to spend some time with Madara—it was rare that they were both allowed to escape their responsibilities for so long, even if they had only really skipped out on their morning—he was also terribly embarrassed at having shown his affection in such an obvious way. He felt a bit like the protagonist in an Icha Icha novel, which meant his afternoon would be ending with sweet kisses and sweaty skin and—

“YOU!” Madara bellowed as soon as he exited his shunshin. His finger was pointing accusingly at Kakashi from above, where Madara was using his chakra to stick himself to the mountain’s surface.

Before Kakashi could even think to reply, Madara dropped from his perch, twisting himself in the air so that he landed on Kakashi’s lap. Icha Icha fell from his hand at the contact, but Madara was kind enough to grab his lover’s favourite piece of ‘literature’ and pocket it in his hip pouch.

Kakashi, ever hip and too cool, pointed a finger at himself, offering a casual, “Me?”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. In one smooth motion, Madara pulled Kakashi’s mask down and slotted their lips together in an angry kiss. Kakashi was frozen for a moment, before he pushed into the kiss, matching Madara’s fervor. Madara’s hands—one at the nape of Kakashi’s neck while the other rested on his cheek—pushed and pulled Kakashi’s face just the way he wanted him as they continued to kiss. Kakashi’s own hands pulled at Madara’s hair and snuck under his clothes, eager to feel his lover’s skin.

Madara broke the kiss, grabbing Kakashi’s hands and pinning them on either side of his head. Though Madara knew Kakashi knew hundreds of different ways of escaping, the fact that Kakashi was letting him hold him down was always arousing. Both men were breathing heavily, Madara’s hair falling over his shoulders and shielding them both from the midday sun. Kakashi could not stop the self-satisfied smile that stretched across his face at seeing just how riled up he managed to make Madara with just a few chocolates.

“Oh, did you want something?”

This time Kakashi was ready for Madara’s kiss, already leaning forward despite his arms being restrained. Kakashi enjoyed the frantic pace Madara set, as if he could not get enough fast enough. When Kakashi pulled back to break the kiss, Madara followed, chasing Kakashi’s lips until his head was pressed back against the stone.

Kakashi very deliberately pressed his hips up into Madara’s, causing Madara to stutter. He took the opportunity to dominate the kiss, sneaking one hand from its captivity to cradle Madara’s cheek.

“You. Bastard,” Madara murmured between kisses. “Making me. Chase you. All. Damn. Day.” Madara grabbed Kakashi’s free hand once more, returning it to the wall before leaning back just enough to look at Kakashi’s smiling face.

“That was your choice—”

Madara cut Kakashi off with another kiss.

“—to waste your time—“

And another kiss.

“—looking for—”

And another.

“me.”

Though Madara was glaring down at his troll of a lover, he felt his heart warm at seeing Kakashi so carefree and happy.

“If I let you go, will you try to leave?” Madara had to ask. Kakashi had disappeared on him too many times to count. While that number decreased after they got together, Madara had learnt that it was a game Kakashi liked to play. It was equal parts endearing and aggravating.

“Hmm,” Kakashi pretended to think, “I like where I am right now, thanks.”

Madara’s glare morphed into a soft smile in the face of Kakashi’s purposely aloof answer, seeing it for the declaration it really was. Kakashi’s expression mirrored Madara’s unconsciously.

Madara dipped down for another kiss, this one slower and softer, before pulling back, sitting upright on Kakashi’s lap. Kakashi stared up at him in confusion as Madara reached into his hip pouch for something. Kakashi’s gaze zeroed in on the circular box covered in red silk patterned with Uchiha fans Madara was holding in front of him with both hands.

When Kakashi looked up to Madara’s face, he noticed a faint pink blush staining Madara’s cheeks. The longer Kakashi sat there just staring, the redder Madara seemed to get. It was only when Madara’s embarrassment began to bleed into anger (as it always did) that Kakashi deigned to speak.

“That’s a nice box.”

By the tick in Madara’s forehead, Kakashi was sure Madara was about to start yelling. Kakashi let his amusement squash down the memories of the last time his genin team was all together and a nervous Rin handed him a present. He took the gift in both hands and felt more than saw how Madara first sagged in relief and then stiffened from nervousness—not that Madara would ever admit to either.

The knot holding the fabric together was easy enough to untie. Kakashi let the cloth fall to his lap, then lifted the lid off the plain box. Inside was a pile of oddly shaped chocolates.

“They’re chocolate covered almonds,” Madara rushed to say. “It’s dark chocolate, and there’s only a thin layer of chocolate over the almonds. They’re not very sweet, honestly they practically taste like plain almonds, you almost don’t even notice the chocolate—”

This time it was Kakashi’s turn to silence Madara with a kiss. Where Madara’s kisses had been forceful and demanding, Kakashi’s kiss was soft and slow. Each press of their lips, each swipe of their tongues felt like an instant and an eternity all at once. Madara sunk into the kiss, his hands reaching up to cradle Kakashi’s face and stroke his cheeks. He pressed Kakashi back into the stone of the mountain, being mindful of the gift which prevented him from lying flush against Kakashi’s chest.

While both felt lust stirring in their guts, there was something intimate and heartwarming in their kisses that stopped either from moving to escalate their embrace. After chasing Kakashi around the village all morning, Madara was just happy to have Kakashi in his arms. It was a relief to feel Kakashi’s skin against his hands, or Kakashi’s breath exhaled against his cheeks. Madara enjoyed the taste of Kakashi’s lips, taking the time to slowly and completely explore every crevice of his mouth. Madara wanted to float in this moment forever.

They would get about five beautiful minutes by themselves before the holiday would blow up in everyone’s faces.

AN:Soooo, don't hate me, but there was some accidental smut going down that I had to cut out. I call it 'accidental' because I wanted this to be fluffy, and then Madara started taking of Kakashi's clothes. If it weren't already so late on the 14th I'd have probably written it out, but I am so ready to be done with this that it's getting scrapped. If I can manage to post another piece (Shisui/Sakura for those who are curious) by the end of the week, I'll work on finishing up that smut and post it. I hope you enjoyed this randomness. Please let me know what you think!

#hatake kakashi #uchiha madara #madakaka #valentine's day #2sb1sf #sibi writes #just a little piece i wrote

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affikki1028 · 4 years

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The Advantages and Disadvantages of Dry Camping

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The Advantages and Disadvantages of Dry Camping

One of the key advantages of RV travel is that all it takes to technically start camping is to throw the motorhome or tow vehicle into “Park.” With most vehicles being highly self-sufficient – even away from the power grid and water hookups of your average campground – any stretch of land can become an impromptu campsite for the night. A secluded spot next to a stream. An empty field or a deserted parking lot. Yes, even Aunt Edna’s driveway, if you’re so inclined.

Such features as an onboard generator and/or inverter, LP tank(s), fresh water supply, and holding tanks make such a reality possible. That is, assuming you know what you’re doing. Surely, the temptation to dry camp or boondock, where travelers camp in one way or another away from standard campsites and hookups, appeals to the gypsy spirit in many of us at some point and time. And there are other reasons, too.

Me, Myself, and I A sense of community is always nice, but sometimes being thrown into the mix at the local campground isn’t exactly what you’re looking for. Larger campgrounds may swell to thousands of campers on a busy weekend; poorly laid out parks stack RVs one right on top of each other. Where did all these people come from? While no one can deny the benefits of full hookups, hot showers, game room, and mini-mart, frankly, established campgrounds are not for everybody. Even the five-star RV resorts that do everything from back in your RV to massage your feet might sometimes miss the point. You want to get away from it all, and that means blazing your own trail. Setting up the travel trailer at the secluded fishing hole. Maneuvering the motorhome through the deepest reaches of the dense forest until you find the perfect spot. Ah, now that’s more like it. No sounds of idling diesels next-door, no kids playing Frisbee through your campsite. Just you, your crew, and nature. Isn’t this the way it was supposed to be?

Location, Location, Location An RV trip isn’t always to popular destinations, where campsites are plentiful. Some folks, who take the second-home concept seriously, choose to set up their rig for an extended stay in a place where an established campground might not be found. For example, that fold-down camper of yours might work admirably in grandma’s backyard during your lengthy visit. Best of all, the grandkids are nice and close. Or perhaps it’s the part-time job that’s got you working at the Christmas tree lot, volunteering at that State Park, or selling your wares at a regional art show that requires on-site living sans hookups? Patient’s families have been known to “camp out” at the hospital, in order to be close to a loved one during a time of crisis. Furthermore, those whose hobbies take them far off the highways – such as motor sports enthusiasts, rock climbers, or boaters – often won’t find better nightly accommodations than their RVs. Different situations call for different accommodations, and your RV is ready for any of it.

Drastic Times Call for… The couple was absolutely dumbfounded by the no vacancy signs up and down Pennsylvania’s Interstate-80. They looked everywhere, by the end of the night just hoping for any campsite, anywhere. Unfortunately, it was fall foliage season and every single place was booked. Sound familiar? It’s getting late and everyone’s exhausted? Somebody forgot to make the reservations and things are looking a little grim. Any RV maverick who heads for a prime tourist spot in-season knows full well how quickly campgrounds can fill up, often forcing a decision of where to beach the rig for the night. Truth is, sometimes boondocking is a necessity – even if you don’t particularly like the idea of bunking down in a Wal-Mart parking lot or deserted field. If you’re not going to be a stickler about making reservations, it’s best to work out dry camping skills in advance – before you have to use them.

Money Woes Compared to even a moderately priced motel, most RV parks, campgrounds – even plush RV resorts – are terrific deals. A night spent at a state or national park is cheaper still, bolstered by the kinds of bedazzling views one won’t find just any old place. However, there are those of the RVing sect who say hooey to the whole notion of paying to camp. After all, they already ponied up $100,000 for the motorhome, which is the premier full-time camping machine. By their thinking, every night spent parked in the woods or at a friend’s house or catching zzz’s at the truck stop is money in the bank. Of course, campground owners don’t much like this free-wheelin’ philosophy, but you can’t beat the price of a night of dry camping.

The Can-Do Spirit Many RVers started as tent campers, so we’re used to the idea of roughin’ it. And just because we made the transformation from soggy sleeping bag to comfy digs doesn’t mean we no longer embrace – or at least pine for – the pioneering spirit. Many of us still cuddle our inner explorer and we get a thunderous sense of pride from camping out where few motorhome tires have tread before. We’re talking about a spot so rustic that not even the pricey satellite dish works. Generating your own power, carrying your own water, feasting on fresh trout or a pantry full of canned goods is a sure-fire way to restore one’s swagger – regardless if it’s in a $5,000 truck camper or $500,000 diesel-pusher. Free camping can be found throughout many of the million acres governed of the Bureau of Land Management and National Wildlife Refugees.

Before You Go… However, contrary to popular belief, the world is not your oyster. One cannot simply park their vehicle anywhere they please and throw out the welcome mat. There are laws to consider, etiquette to follow, and safety concerns to factor. Furthermore, different RVs offer different capabilities as far as boondocking is concerned. Many smaller towables lack the ability to generate their own power, lacking an onboard generator, inverter, or even solar power applications. Smaller fresh water tanks will limit the duration of the trip – and length of shower, for that matter – of any off-roading adventure. Is your RV up to the challenge? Are you? Here’s a few things to consider before camping without a net.

Safety First The problem with camping in Parts Unknown is just that – you just don’t know. Is it safe or not? While every campground isn’t necessarily Fort Knox, the reputable ones are well-lit, fenced-in, and offer the safety-in-numbers reassurance you won’t get bunking at the truck stop or deepest, darkest woods. For me, every snap of a tree branch sends me into a deep, paranoid panic when parked in isolation. For others, it’s all part of the natural experience. Still, one must never compromise the safety factor. If it’s just a matter of spending the night before moving on in the morning, gravitate towards spots that are well-lit, fairly busy, and ideally located near the communal bond of another RV or two. Parked under a streetlight might not make for the best night’s sleep you’ve ever had, but it does provide some assurances of safety. Moreover, make sure doors and windows are locked, possession brought inside for the night, and you know where the keys are in the case of a much-needed quick getaway. That, and a Louisville Slugger in case things ever get, ahem, interesting.

Legal Matters While Wal-Mart has made it well-known how much they just love harboring RVers for the night, many potential landlords aren’t so giving. Nor are some towns, which feel squatters may not be the best thing for the community – or the local businesses that profit from overnight guests. The fact is the land you’re looking to camp on – be it in the back of a mall lot or next to a woodland stream – belongs to somebody. And that somebody probably isn’t you. At the very least, one should always try to get the owner’s okay before activating the slide-out and sending up the TV antennae for the big game. Otherwise, that tapping you hear on the side of the window at 4 a.m. might just be Officer Friendly looking to point you back on the highway. As a rule of etiquette, it’s always nice to support a business that has allowed you to camp over for the night.

Is Your Rig Worthy? The axiom is painful yet true: The smaller the RV, the less stuff it’s got. Smaller fresh water tanks mean less aqua for drinking and washing, while minuscule holding tanks dictate fewer days spent in the wild before needing to purge. Keep this in mind before scheduling a two-week odyssey far away from civilization. As we mentioned, your vehicle may or may not have means to create electricity onboard, forcing owners to invest in a portable generator or inverter to do the work. On the flip side, a smaller unit is better when it comes to maneuvering you and your crew to more reclusive places. A camper van or truck camper is a superior off-road machine, capable of squeezing through the tight passages that a 40′ motorhome or 60′ worth of trailer and tow vehicle can only dream about. In short, don’t write checks your RV can’t cash. Know and respect your RV’s limits, and plan accordingly. Moreover, what is the condition of the RV? Is everything working okay? Better be sure before you find yourself 20 miles away from a paved road with a flat tire or a dead battery. As you would before any trip, fully inspect the unit and stay on top of any preventative maintenance and routine service.

Ready, Set, Camp Even if you never intend to spend one single, solitary moment camping away from full hookups and the predictable fun of a campground, it’s still a good idea to at least know how what your RV is capable of – just in case. The best advice is to test your dry-camping skills in a safe environment. The smartest way is to get a no-hookup campsite (or get full hookups and don’t use them the first night or two) to see how you do. Or just try things out in the driveway. You’ll learn all-too-quickly you and your RV’s learning curve. How fast does your family go through water? How much LP do you need for a weekend or more? How adept are you at cooking over a campfire if the LP gas runs out? How much can your generator handle at one time – or how good are you at conserving electricity? Ah, yes, conservation, the backbone of the dry camping experience. Here’s some ways to get the most out of less.

Restore Power If you run out of electricity, you run out of a lot. Fortunately, there are ways to keep that from happening, namely through the use of a generator or inverter to keep the batteries surging. Portable models aren’t cheap, but are available to prolong your stays in the great outdoors. Otherwise, you’ll need to adopt a highly disciplined approach to squeeze every bit of juice out of your batteries. Turn off all unnecessary lights and appliances when not in use. A few guilty parities are the water pump, electric step, or exterior lights, which all subtly eat up the amps. Forgo the blow dryer and air conditioner, which are big electricity-users. Park in the shade, on hot days, to keep the refrigerator from overworking, but still keeping things cool onboard. Don’t keep playing with the slide-outs or spend the whole afternoon watching TV. Keep an eye on that monitor panel. You don’t want the batteries to drain to zero. Remember: In a pinch, a decent-length drive can partially recharge your coach battery when readings begin to wane.

Water World Not everyone has a 100-gallon water tank. For everyone who doesn’t, it’s time to conserve, considering that water is critical for cooking, cleaning, and hydrating the crew. How else are you going to make Kool-Aid? Thankfully, fresh water is pretty easy to maintain and re-supply if you should run out (Quick Mart, anyone?) Still, shorter showers (remember the in-and-out style of the “Navy” shower) and minimizing hand washing (use hand sanitizers when possible) should maintain water levels. Don’t leave the water on when brushing teeth or washing dishes, either. If there are facilities nearby for showering and such, use them. And just think – the less water you use, the less goes into the holding tanks. It’s a win-win. A final thought: Just because no one may be able to see you doesn’t give you the right to dump the tanks during your boondocking adventures. We’re on our best behavior, right? Fifty gallons worth of spewing gray and black water is no way to repay someone for using his or her property.

Pro-Propane LP gas is a pretty hardy resource, meaning it’s tough to run out if you have any decent-size tanks. However, our conservative approach should still be employed here as well. The best way to stretch the propane supply is to cook outdoors. A campfire is still the most fun and flavorful way to prepare a meal, a method that simply can’t be replicated in the RV’s oven no matter how you try. Snuffing out pilot light’s when not in use will stretch your supply even further. Otherwise, go easy on the furnace and water heater.

Provisions Overloading the RV is a bad thing. Running out of Mac N’ Cheese 30 miles from the nearest town isn’t too good, either. Dry-campers must walk the line between loading up and overloading, which is hopefully something that comes with experience. Spare canned goods, firewood, and portable cooking devices can go a long way when roughin’ it – provided they don’t tilt your vehicle into the overweight condition. If boondocking plans simply call for a night here and a night there, you probably won’t run out of food or supplies. However, if the campout is of the epic variety, be realistic about how much of everything you might need and how easy it will be to get more. Bring extra food and water, if need be, since a hungry group quickly falls into mutiny mode. A few other possible items to include: portable grill/cooking grate, charcoal, fishing poles and tackle box, extra blankets, alkaline batteries, cell phone, first aid kit, tool kits, hatchet/saw, manual can opener, cooking tools, and bug spray. And don’t head into the woods with the fuel tank on “E.” Chances are your generator will munch on some of the fuel and dry camping is no time to run out of gas.

portable inverter generator #Advantages #Disadvantages #Dry #Camping

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